Harry Potter - Series Fan Fiction ❯ War of the Wizarding World ❯ Chapter 1

[ Y - Young Adult: Not suitable for readers under 16 ]

In an instant, with a blinding flash of bright blue light- portkey light- Voldemort was gone. Gone too was the invisible barrier that Harry and Ron had been pounding on while screaming themselves hoarse. Suddenly deprived of the barrier's support, both boys flew forward and sprawled on the stone floor of the corridor, several feet from where Hermione was crumpled near the wall, still with her arms wrapped tightly around her stomach, still struggling to draw breath in the wake of Voldemort's savage parting kick, which had knocked the wind out of her.

Scrambling to his knees, Harry made it to her first. He reached her side in an instant, but then stopped, at a momentary loss for what to do to help or comfort her. "Hermione," he gasped finally, awkwardly; "Hermione, I'm here. Its okay- we're here now- you're gonna be okay."

Hermione raised her head, and as soon as Harry saw her eyes, dark with pain and shock, he realized that she was about as far as she could get from okay. For one thing, the most pressing thing, she was still struggling to breathe without quite managing to do so.

"Oh no," Harry whispered, "Oh God, oh no, please breathe... Hermione, you gotta breathe!" He reached out and grasped her shoulders and shook her slightly, then pulled her fiercely into his arms, crying, "I don't know how to help you- I don't know what to do!"

Finally, as Harry's arms closed about her and her head fell onto his shoulder, Hermione managed to drag in a long, shuddering breath. Another followed, and another, as she wound her fingers in the material of his shirt and clung to him like a woman drowning.

Harry held her thus for what seemed to him like days, listening to her ragged breathing as tears coursed down his face. "It's all right now," he finally choked. "You're breathing...you're okay...you're breathing...you're okay..." he repeated it like a mantra, for he had felt so sure, so terribly sure, that when Voldemort had let them through the barrier it was only because she had been beyond all help. Just the fact that she was here in his arms...alive...breathing...seemed at the moment to be an incredible gift. And yet he was aware, even as he spoke the soothing words, of just how monumentally false they were. Hermione was alive, she was breathing, but she was not, by any stretch of the imagination, okay.

Harry raised his head and locked gazes with Ron, who was crouched a few feet away, looking for all the world like a trapped and wounded animal. He opened his mouth to say, God Ron, help me- I don't know what to do- but before the words could come Hermione muttered something into his shoulder and his attention returned to her in a flash.

"...Huh...Harry..." she whispered again. "I'm so. ..ungh...c-cold! I d- duh-don't feel so good...at all!"

Despite everything, Harry cracked the smallest smile at her characteristic understatement. "It's all right," he said, his voice nearly a sob. "I've got you...I'll keep you warm." He gathered her closer, and realized with a sick feeling that everywhere her skin touched his she did indeed feel like ice. She was shaking too, shaking so hard her teeth were starting to chatter.

"Ron!" Harry called, "you gotta get over here! She's freezing, Ron- help me keep her warm." Wretchedly, Ron shook his head and mouthed two words at Harry- my fault. Staring at Ron, Harry remembered that the last words Ron had said to Hermione before this ordeal had been spoken in vicious anger, and had been the cause of her running ahead alone. Dear God, he blames himself for this, Harry thought. This is going to destroy him. And it's not even true- Voldemort did this to torment me, only me- I'm the cause of this!

Hermione cried out as a violent shudder convulsed her body. Her nails dug into Harry as she clung to him, gasping, until the spasm passed. "Hermione!" Harry cried, panicked. Finally she slumped against him, limp again.

"Harry..." she whispered, more softly than before, "I'm scared."

Harry was teetering on the edge of a blind panic now. He could feel that Hermione's shivers were subsiding, and that by itself should have been a good thing, but that wasn't all- it was as if Hermione herself were...fading somehow...her body was still solid in him arms, but he had the distinct impression that her...essence maybe was the word...was slowly seeping out of her pain wracked body and away. He laid his head against hers and murmured gently to her, trying not to let her hear his increasing desperation.

Raising his head, he again met Ron's haunted gaze. "Ron, PLEASE come help me," Harry begged, his voice cracking, then mouthed the words- I think she's dying! Ron rocked backward, as though Harry's last words, his silent words, had been a physical blow, and looked stricken to the core. But he still did not approach.

In Harry's lap, Hermione struggled to raise her head once more. She only had the strength to hold it up for an instant though, before letting it fall against Harry's shoulder again. "...Ron-" she gasped, "...still mad?" Her question just about broke Harry's heart. "Tell him...ugh...for me, Harry...whatever I did to make him so angry...I'm suh-sorry. Please..." she paused as her body convulsed once more, then whispered, "duh-don't let him stay mad at me! Harry, please..."

Harry raised his head once more to see if Ron had understood Hermione's words from his distance. Ron's face was buried in his hands, and his shoulders were heaving- he was either sobbing or retching, Harry wasn't sure which, but either way it seemed as though he had heard Hermione's plea.

Suddenly, Hermione's back arched against Harry as the worst spasm yet gripped her mercilessly. She screamed hoarsely, and her eyes flew open as if in surprise at the pain. Instantly her eyes, too large and dark in her pale, pain-ravaged face, locked on Ron's, who had raised his head when he heard her cry. Her eyes never left his as the spasm passed and she fell back against Harry's chest, and as he watched her lips formed one word; "Ron." She extended a trembling hand toward him beseechingly.

That single word and gesture did what all Harry's pleading had not; Ron was beside them in a flash. "Hermione........." He breathed her name like a prayer, reaching out to cup her cheek in his hand. Her cheek was deathly cold, and damp with sweat and tears.

As soon as he touched her, Ron felt a jolt like an electric shock tear through him; a jolt that came from five years of emotions suppressed and denied surfacing in an instant. Before he was fully aware of what he was doing, he found himself pulling her frantically, almost violently, out of Harry's lap and into his own.

He spoke her name again and again as his hands flew over her, caressing her face, her hair, chafing her cold arms and hands. Harry, meanwhile, crawled slowly away, spent, miserable, to a distance of several feet, where he further exhausted himself by pounding his fists against the floor and wall until they were bloody. Then he dropped his forehead against the wall and listened, gasping, to the sounds of Ron's grief.

Bracing his back against the wall, Ron pulled Hermione more fully into his arms, cradling her head against his chest and rocking her like a baby. "Please," he whispered in a choked voice, as he felt a convulsive shudder wrack her body, "Hermione- you're the strongest, most stubborn person I know. you've got to pull through this, please."

He laid his cheek down on top of her head, burying his nose in her damp, sweaty, yet still somehow sweet smelling hair, and felt his tears begin to flow just as he felt her fingers catch and grip the material of his shirt. She clenched her fists, nearly ripping his shirt, and gasped as another spasm of pain ripped through her.

"Hermione," he sobbed, hugging her tighter, "I'm here. I couldn't save you- I'm so sorry, love- and the things I said...ah, God...but I'm here now and I...I love you. I've loved you since second year at least, but I just never found the right time...or the courage...to tell you. Please don't leave me now, not now that I've finally said it...please...Hermione?"

A despairing moan, muffled by the fabric of his shirt, was her only answer. Ron stroked her hair and murmured nonsense to her as he finally felt her begin to relax in his arms.

Harry, who had been watching from some feet away, now crawled back over, threw himself against the wall beside Ron, drew up his knees and dropped his forehead onto them. He wrapped one arm about himself, draped the other over Ron's shoulders, and began to sob miserably. Everything he had just seen came crashing down on him...Hermione in such agony...he and Ron powerless to help her..and why? Because of him. Voldemort had hurt her for no other reason than because he knew that doing so would cause Harry to suffer.

It was at this moment that, in a swish of long black cloaks, none other than Professor Snape and his protégé Draco Malfoy rounded a corner in the corridor and stopped short, as though they too had hit an invisible barrier.

"Potter," Snape spat, "what is the meaning of this?"

Harry raised his head slowly. Although Snape allowed nothing to change in his outward expression, he experienced surprise and a first twinge of alarm at the dull, shocked look in Harry's eyes. Malfoy, meanwhile, was staring intently at Hermione, his customary sneer nowhere to be seen.

"It's Hermione, professor," Harry said, his voice barely more than a whisper. "She's been...attacked. She's hurt bad."

"Attacked...right here in a hallway of Hogwarts?! Attacked how...when...by whom?"

Harry and Ron exchanged a glance. "Professor, I...I'm not sure that Hermione would want me to-" Harry began, but stopped abruptly when Snape held up a hand. The answer of how had just been answered for Snape, though he could hardly credit- didn't want to credit- what he was seeing. When Ron had pulled Hermione onto his lap, her uniform skirt had ridden up almost to her waist, and what Snape was staring at now was her thighs, thighs smeared and stained with blood. But how? How could this have happened right here at Hogwarts? Right here in a public corridor, by God?! Granted, this corridor was seldom used, but. but still. The color drained from Snape's face and he felt an abrupt need to sit down right there on the floor, but he held himself together by strength of will.

"Raped!" he exclaimed in a hoarse whisper. It was the voice of a man who has been punched in the stomach. Instantly the color drained from Draco's face as well: he went two shades paler than Harry would have thought possible for someone so pale to begin with. He sucked in his breath sharply, and even through the haze of his misery and guilt, Harry had to marvel at the stricken expression on his face. What could Malfoy possibly care...Malfoy who used to call Hermione a filthy little mudblood? Granted, he hadn't used that term in at least two years, but...

Harry's train of thought ended abruptly as Snape, sounding deadlier than Harry had ever heard him, hissed one word: "Who?"

Harry's cloudy gaze returned to meet Snape's furious stare. "Voldemort, sir," he whispered. "He was right here...in the flesh."

Snape opened his mouth to ask the next pressing question, where had he gone, but before he could do so, Draco erupted into the silence, surprising them all.

"Why didn't you stop him!?" he cried, twin points of fire now blazing high on the cheeks of his pale face. "You know you're the only one who can, Potter, so if you saw...what he was doing...then why the HELL didn't you STOP him!?"

"We ran into a barrier!" Harry said in a strangled voice. "Hermione had been walking on ahead of us...because she and Ron were fighting again...she rounded the corner and then we...we heard her...screaming, and we ran around the corner and just...it was like hitting a brick wall...a clear brick wall. It was solid...we couldn't go any further...she was yelling at us to run, to get away...but we couldn't leave her like that...we were going mad...watching...he had her upright...right against the wall...we tried spells...we hurled ourselves against the barrier...it held. There was nothing we could do, but we kept trying...we tried the whole time. But we couldn't get through...and she...she looked at me...there was such pain in her eyes...and pleading. She reached out toward me..." Harry paused to stifle a sob. "And then he...he finished...he leaned forward and whispered something to her...and she...oh God, Hermione...she spat right in his face. He grabbed her by the hair and slammed her head back against the wall. He stepped back and she slid down the wall...we thought she would collapse, but she didn't...she was still conscious somehow and she caught herself before she hit the floor. She was kneeling at his feet...supporting herself on one arm...her other hand clasped to her head...and then he kicked her hard in the stomach. She doubled over...wrapped both arms around her stomach and doubled over hard...slammed her head again, on the floor...and then he took another step back...and he turned and looked at me- he grinned at me- and he said, 'the only reason this happened to her is that she's your friend.' And then he just...vanished. As soon as he was gone the barrier was gone too...now we could reach her, but it was too late...too late." Harry's head dropped forward onto his knees once again, and now his whole body was wracked by his sobs.

Snape found himself speechless in the wake of this tale. He felt his self- control failing and made a conscious effort to get a grip on his emotions. He had never cared much for Hermione Granger- never cared much for any Hogwart's student other than the members of his own Slytherin House- but no one- no one deserved this.

As Snape's mind raced to determine the best course of action, Draco suddenly breathed the words "oh, no." In a flash, he crossed the distance to where Ron sat huddled with Hermione in his arms, and threw himself to his knees. Staring intently at her still form, he again moaned, "oh, NO!" With a tenderness that amazed both Harry and Ron, he reached out and pushed back the hair that had fallen like a curtain across her face. Her tear streaked face was ashen, and utterly still.

"Oh, Hermione," Draco whispered, "Hermione, no!" Suddenly, all gentleness gone, he gripped her shoulder and began to shake her hard. "Hermione," he said loudly, urgently, "Hermione, wake up!"

"Leave her alone!" Ron snarled, clutching her tighter. "Back the hell off, Malfoy, and leave her ALONE!"

"Leave her alone!?" Draco echoed, incredulous, his voice rising. Harry and Ron were astonished to see that now tears were standing out in his eyes. "Leave her ALONE!? You bloody stupid prat! Potter just said she slammed her head- hard- not once, but TWICE- and you let her go to SLEEP- and now you say to leave her ALONE!? Don't you understand she may never wake UP!?"

As Ron's eyes widened in horror, Draco began shaking Hermione again. "Hermione- for God's sake- PLEASE wake up!" There was no response.

And then Snape was there, bending over them. He clamped a hand down on Draco's shoulder and squeezed- a quick but comforting gesture. Snape reflected briefly that he had had no more idea than Harry or Ron that his own protégé was carrying a torch for the Granger girl, and he wondered, equally briefly, when and how it had begun. But there was no time to ponder such questions now. As the only adult present, he had to take control of the situation. Draco rocked back on his heels, making room for Snape, and dashed angrily, savagely, at the tears that were now flowing down his pale face. Then, like Harry had done earlier, he dropped his head onto his knees.

Snape reached for Hermione, but Ron pulled her more tightly to him, crushing her against his chest. He dropped his face once again behind the curtain of her hair and choked out just one word; "No!"

Snape's fists clenched in frustration. "Listen, Weasley-" he began harshly, then paused and forced himself to gentle his tone. There was too much at stake to allow his emotions to get the better of him now. Hermione's life hung in the balance. "Ron, her chances for survival grow slimmer every moment she stays here on this floor. She has to get up to hospital, and because you are already exhausted from trying to break through the barrier, I can carry her far more quickly than you can. If you want her to live, Ron, you must give her to me- now!"

Ron stayed as he was a moment more, then, with a groan of anguish, loosened his grip on Hermione. Snape scooped her easily from his arms, lifting her as effortlessly as though she had been a napping five-year-old child. Ron stared blankly down at his empty arms, then gave a low, guttural cry and brought them up over his face, grabbing fistfuls of his hair. He began to rock back and forth, sobbing. Snape stared at him for a moment, unable to tear his gaze away from the most profound display of abject sorrow and loss he had ever seen. Even Sirius Black's reaction when he learned of the deaths of James and Lily Potter hadn't matched this.

Unlike with Draco, it had been clear to most students and teachers at Hogwart's that Ron had loved Hermione for years. The two had never progressed past a close friendship, however, and it was also common knowledge that said friendship was stormy, to say the least. And now Snape remembered Harry saying that the reason Hermione had been walking ahead, alone and vulnerable, was that she and Ron had been "fighting again". Good God, the pain that boy must feel, Snape thought. He felt a momentary rush of sympathy for Ron: if there was one thing Snape knew about, it was guilt.

Then Harry wrapped his arms around Ron and pulled him into his embrace. Strapping 16-year-old boys the both of them, they dropped their heads on each other's shoulders and simply held onto one another. Draco remained, hugging his knees, off to one side. Snape dropped his gaze to Hermione's still, tear streaked face. A little furrow between her brows suggested that even now, in whatever dark place her spirit had fled to, she was still in fear or pain, or both. Snape debated for only a second before his better nature won. He lowered his head and spoke in her ear. "Miss Granger, this is professor Snape. You're safe now. Please listen to me. You're one of the brightest students this school has ever seen. You'll make Head Girl next year for sure, if you will only hold on now. Just hold on and be strong. Hermione, please." His words had the effect he had intended- a tiny sigh escaped her lips and the furrow between her brows relaxed.

Snape adjusted her in his arms so that her head rested on his broad chest, then glanced once again at the boys on the floor. "One of you needs to fetch Dumbledore, and fast- I fear this may be beyond Madam Pomfrey's skill. The others can follow me to the hospital wing if you like. It makes no difference to me which of you gets Dumbledore, but it has to done right now- come on, on your feet!" With that, he turned and sprinted down the corridor and around the corner. In a moment his feet could be heard pounding quickly up the stairs. Then he was gone.

When the sound of Snape's footsteps had faded to nothing, the three boys raised their heads and stared at each other; Harry and Ron, best friends since first year, leaning on one another, each deriving support and comfort from the solid presence of the other at his side, and Draco Malfoy, off at a distance, shoulders hunched under the weight of a grief that he bore alone.

Using the wall as a support, Harry slowly dragged himself to his feet. "I'll go get...Dumbledore," he said in a tired, defeated voice. "Ron, you...go on and find Hermione. You should be with her now."

Ron staggered to his feet as well, also leaning heavily against the wall. But before either of the exhausted Gryffindors could move, Draco leapt up lightly, with catlike agility and grace. "Don't be a fool, Potter," he hissed. "Professor Snape said to fetch Dumbledore quickly, and you're in no condition to go anywhere fast. I'll get him."

"Like bloody hell you will," Ron spat as Draco turned to go. "Harry and I will manage just fine. I don't know what you're playing at, Malfoy," he continued, eyes narrowing, "but I think it would be best if you just slithered on back to your dungeon and left us- and Hermione- alone! You're no part of this."

Draco rounded on Ron, his pale eyes glittering and hands clenching and unclenching in fury. In two purposeful strides he covered the distance between them, and grabbing Ron by his scarlet and gold tie, he thrust his face forward until they were nearly nose to nose.

"I'm going to pretend you didn't say that, Weasley," he hissed, "because what little brains you have are clearly overwrought right now and I can respect that, given the circumstances. I know- hell, the whole school knows- how you feel about her. So I will forgive you just-this-once. But DO NOT go trying to tell me what is and isn't my business again." He let go of Ron's tie and gave him a little thrust backwards. "And another thing," he added, "if I had been down here with you to begin with, the whole bloody business never would have come to this." He turned and glared at Harry. "I would have found a way to stop that bastard."

"I'm sure you would have," Ron growled as Draco again turned to leave. "You probably would have asked him pretty please, and that's all it would have taken, coming from YOU. After all, he's practically your godfather."

Draco stopped short, with his back to Harry and Ron. For a moment he just stood, head bowed, teeth gritted, as he waited for the wave of red which had passed before his eyes to subside. His left hand twitched, so great was the temptation- the need- to grab his wand. After a long moment, however, he felt himself in control again. Without looking up, he spoke in a low, feral voice. "Maybe you are willing to just stand around down here and exchange words while Hermione dies, Weasley, but I'm not. I'm going after Dumbledore, and then I'm going to the hospital wing. End of discussion."

Before either Harry or Ron had a chance to reply, he was gone.

Harry and Ron looked at each other for a moment with identical hopeless expressions. "I can't live without her, Harry," Ron said at last, his voice dull, wooden. "I know," Harry replied, and looked as though he was about to say more, but then just repeated, "I know."

Together they made their way around the corner, up the stairs, and toward the hospital wing.

Draco headed for Dumbledore's office at a dead run. His feet pounded the stone floors of the Hogwarts hallways, blood pounded in his ears, and as he raised his hand again and again to dash tears from his cheeks, a single word pounded in his brain, in rhythm with his footfalls: weak. Weak. WEAK. That's what he was; weak. Coming apart like that. Letting Potter and Weasley see him cry, by God! It gave him some small comfort to remember that even his mentor, Professor Snape, had lost his composure for a minute or two back there.

.........But oh God, he didn't cry, now did he?!? I can't believe I cried! In fact, I'm still CRYING! Get a hold of yourself Draco, before you disgrace the Malfoy name beyond repair!

But try as he might, he couldn't contain the tears, or the memories that accompanied them.

The first time- he saw again the first time he had fled, over a year ago, to the solitude of the library one evening after dinner. He had chosen it as a destination simply because it seemed the least likely place in the school for him to encounter any of his fellow Slytherins. They were not a very intellectual group. And that was exactly the point: he was sick to death of being followed around, looked up to, idolized by a bunch of slack- jawed cretins! Draco was not stupid; quite the contrary, in fact. And after several years in the company of Crabbe, Goyle and their ilk, he was desperate for some intelligent conversation. He craved it the way a man lost in the desert craves water.

Being unwilling as he was, however, to approach the members of any other House, it didn't look like he was going to see that desire fulfilled. But at least, he told himself, he could shake off the morons for a few hours and lose himself in a good book.

The library was dim and quiet, and seemed utterly empty. On his way toward the restricted section, navigating down a narrow, dark aisle between two towering rows of bookshelves, he had tripped over something on the ground and gone sprawling. He had picked himself up, swearing imaginatively under his breath, and glanced down to discover that the object he had fallen over was a school bag, discarded right in the middle of the aisle. Furiously, he looked around for its owner.

He located her some distance away, at a small table in a particularly dark corner, hunched over a massive book, reading intently by wandlight. She was so deeply engrossed that she didn't seem to notice his approach. Angrily, he slammed the bag, which he had picked up off the floor, onto the table beside her. "This yours, Granger?" he snarled.

She jumped a little, startled, which he found gratifying. When she looked up at him, her eyes were wary. "Yes, it's mine," she said guardedly. "Where did you find it?"

"Right where you left it, presumably," he snapped.

"I put it down when I picked up this book- I don't remember exactly where," she said dismissively, and started to turn back to her reading.

"Well, it almost killed me!" Draco exploded. "What the hell were you thinking, leaving it lying about in the dark like that! I tripped and fell flat on my-" he broke off suddenly, aware that he sounded rather less than dignified. This was not the calm, collected persona that he liked Granger and her Gryffindor friends to see.

She turned quickly, and this time completely, back around to face him, and he thought he saw the barest hint of a smile twisting her lips. But when she spoke, her voice and eyes were icy. "It is true that I have become accustomed to leaving my things about when I am in the library at night," she said. "I am very unused to encountering anyone else here at this hour. Which is frankly the way I like it."

"I suppose I could ask you," she continued, her voice dripping with scorn, "just what the hell YOU were thinking, blundering about in the dark, as it seems to me that most people would have enough common sense to use wandlight. But then it occurs to me that considering which House you hail from, intelligence is not likely your strong suit. So that would be a wasted question. Now good night, Malfoy." And she turned her back on him once more.

For a long moment he simply stood staring at her, seething, rendered speechless by outrage. The irony of the situation was not lost on him. Here he had come to the library seeking to distance himself from the... the...the intellectually challenged members of his house, and now he was being labeled as one of them by this snooty Gryffindor bitch. Oh how that did sting!

He cast about for a really cold and cutting reply, but in his state of high indignity words continued to fail him. This was an entirely new experience, and far from a pleasant one; never in his life until this moment had he been, well, flustered. He turned to leave, but before he had taken more than three steps, he whirled about again. The injustice was simply too much to bear.

"You think just because I'm in Slytherin I'm stupid!" he cried like a petulant child.

When she looked up at him for the third time, one of her eyebrows was raised archly and she bobbed her head ever so slightly in agreement. Suddenly it seemed very important to prove to her that he was not the idiot she believed him to be. He cast about desperately for some means of proof, and his eyes lit on the book spread open before her.

"I know this book," he said, leaning in for a closer look and causing her to draw away from him, "and I know it's not the only copy here. Tell you what, Granger; I'll prove I'm not stupid. I challenge you to a race to the end of the chapter. I'll go get another copy and open it to this page. On your go, we both read. I submit that I will not only reach the end of the chapter more quickly than you, but with a better understanding of the subject matter as well."

The expression on her face gave him a sense of deep satisfaction. Doesn't look so aloof now, he thought. Hermione was, in fact, staring at him in complete, open-mouthed amazement. Finally, a most un-Hermione-like exclamation escaped her; "As IF!"

"So you accept, then," he said, the corners of his mouth twitching despite himself. And that was how it began. What had started as fierce competition ("I want a rematch, Malfoy," she had growled later that night; "same time, same place, tomorrow!") had warmed over the following weeks and months to mutual respect, then friendship, and finally, for Draco at least, a dawning of love. Of course, he had never admitted that last bit, even to himself- until now.

They had met in the library three or four times each week, the most recent time having been only last night. Their friendship was entirely contained within the library walls. In the halls and in class, they studiously ignored each other. There were some differences, however; Draco had ceased to tease and bait her, and had seen to it that his henchmen Crabbe and Goyle desisted as well. He had noticed that over the past few months Potter and Weasley hadn't been giving him such a hard time either, and wondered if that was Hermione's doing. He decided it probably was.

More tears- more tears flowed and he was helpless to stop them, as he remembered her pale, still face, the chill of her skin, the blood on her thighs. A wave of despair engulfed him, so intense that he stumbled and had to fling out an arm to catch himself against the wall. Don't think of her like that, he told himself fiercely, or you'll collapse right here crying like a baby, and you'll never reach Dumbledore, and she'll die for sure! GET A BLOODY GRIP ON YOURSELF!

He willed himself instead to see her as she had been last night in the library; eyes bright with humor and intelligence as the two of them bantered good-naturedly, brow furrowed in concentration later in the evening as she bent over her book, the two of them studying side-by-side in the companionable silence that good friends enjoy. "I won't let you die," he whispered, shaking his head to clear it. Pushing away from the wall, he ran on.

Moments later he barreled around a final corner and skidded to a halt in front of Dumbledore's office. Dropping his hands onto his knees, his pale hair hanging in his eyes, he spent several long seconds gasping for breath. Fortunately, before he had to begin worrying about how to gain entrance into the office, which was of course enchanted, Dumbledore himself appeared around a corner at the opposite end of the corridor.

Upon seeing the usually cool and collected Draco Malfoy in front of his office in such a state, Dumbledore broke into a jog, reaching Draco just as he straightened up. The stricken look in the boy's eyes was enough to tell Dumbledore, who like most people at Hogwarts had never seen Malfoy display any emotion other than disdain and, occasionally, rage at losing a quidditch game, that something was disastrously wrong.

"Out with it, boy," he said, not unkindly, but sensing that time was of the essence. And he reached out and squeezed Draco's shoulder. The very fact that the boy did not repel this gesture further heightened his sense of alarm.

"Headmaster," Draco gasped, "Hermione Granger...hospital wing...maybe dying...The Dark Lord...right here at school...Professor Snape said...bring you...quickly, go, go!"

Without another word, Dumbledore went. A minute later, after sufficiently regaining his breath, Draco tore after him.


Outside the door of the hospital room, Dumbledore stood with Madam Pomfrey and Professors Snape and McGonagall, looking grave. "I have done what I can," he said quietly, "now all that remains is to wait. Harry and Ron are to be excused from all their classes and other obligations," he continued, now addressing McGonagall, "until Miss Granger either recovers or-" he broke off for a moment, then composed himself and continued. "I think Miss Granger may yet recover; she is, as we all know, a very strong-willed young lady. Nevertheless, in all my time at this school I have never seen a student injured to this extent, and I fear that without her friends beside her, she would give up the difficult and painful fight for life in which she is engaged. Therefore, I stress again that those two young men must be allowed to remain by her side day and night. She is deriving strength from their presence, I can sense this." Professor McGonagall tersely nodded her assent.

Snape, his face etched with uncharacteristic lines of concern, now spoke. "What about Draco Malfoy? I've never seen the boy so upset. I was not previously aware of any connection between him and Miss Granger, but I think it is clear now that one does exist."

Dumbledore nodded slowly. "Indeed, young Mister Malfoy looked severely shaken when he came to collect me. He will be free to come and go from this room; however, he will not be excused from class. I do not sense that his presence is crucial to Miss Granger's survival, as is the case with the other two boys."

Turning to Madam Pomfrey, Dumbledore said, "Harry Potter, Ron Weasley, and Draco Malfoy. These three young men are to be granted unquestioned access to Miss Granger's room. Absolutely no other students are to be admitted without first consulting me." Madam Pomfrey nodded briskly. "And now," Dumbledore said wearily, "if you will please excuse me, I must go and notify Miss Granger's parents."

He walked slowly away, his shoulders bowed as if under an immense weight. The others shared a bleak look and dispersed.

Sitting on the edge of the narrow hospital bed, holding one of Hermione's cold, lifeless hands in both of his, Ron remembered.

In a disused corridor deep in the bowels of the school, he, Harry and Hermione walked three abreast. Harry was studying the Marauder's Map intently, Hermione was- what else- complaining vocally, and Ron was seething.

God, he was so SICK of her holier-than-thou attitude all the time! Here it was, a glorious Friday evening, classes done for the week, the weekend stretching out ahead of them like a shimmering oasis, and Hermione had done nothing but bitch since they left the common room. About how they were missing out on valuable study time. On a bloody FRIDAY NIGHT! Harry was the one who, bent on using the map to sneak out to Hogsmeade and grab a butter beer, had pulled her along despite her protests. Ron would have been more than happy to leave her to her precious books. Why did they need her here raining on their parade anyway?!?

Several paces from a turn in the corridor, Harry stopped abruptly, looking puzzled. "I just don't get it," he muttered, "the rumor all over the school is that the passageway opens right about here, but the map's not showing it. There's never been a passage in Hogwarts that the map hasn't shown... but if there's nothing here, then where are all the rumors coming from?"

"The map is more reliable than some silly rumors, Harry," Hermione replied archly. "Talk is cheap, but the map's never steered you wrong before. Which is not to say, of course, that I feel you ought to be using it- you've known how I've felt on that subject for years. So can we all just agree that there's nothing here? I really need to get back and start on my essay for-"

"Hold on a sec," Harry said, head still bent over the map. "Just one sec, Hermione, let me think."

Harry had been close- so close- to averting the catastrophe that followed. It was just beginning to dawn on him, with a sickening feeling in the pit of his stomach, that maybe the rumors had been false- and not just false, in fact, but PLANTED- that maybe the three of them should turn around posthaste and make, not for Gryffindor Tower but for Dumbledore's office, when Ron erupted.

He just hadn't been able to take it anymore- the sight of Hermione standing there, leaning against the wall in her uniform, which she still wore even though classes had ended hours ago and he and Harry had long since changed into more comfortable weekend clothing, her arms crossed primly over her chest, one loafer-clad foot tapping impatiently. And the look on her face- eyes rolled and staring at the ceiling, lower lip jutted out, as much as to say, how much longer do I have to wait before these dimwits figure out what I knew from the outset?

"Bloody hell, Hermione," Ron shouted, "Will you wipe that damned righteous look off your face!" Her eyes flew to him, startled, as did Harry's, whose train of thought, the precious train of thought that could have changed the outcome of the day if given just a few more seconds to come to fruition, was abruptly dispelled by this unexpected turn of events.

"I didn't want you here in the first place," Ron continued furiously. "I can't imagine why he (jutting his head toward Harry) brought you at all! All you ever do is bitch and moan and slow us down! You want your damn books and homework so much, then GO! I'M sure as hell not stopping you! And don't bother coming with us again, either- you have no sense of adventure at all- I don't know how you ever got INTO Gryffindor House! I think the sorting hat must have fucked up royally, because from where I'm standing, YOU ARE NOT ONE OF US!"

He stood there, hands clenched, as Harry and Hermione continued to stare at him, the former in unmitigated shock, the latter with a deeply wounded expression spreading slowly over her face. For his part, Ron could hardly believe the venomous words that had just come pouring out of his mouth...... but he wasn't willing to back down either. So he just watched as Hermione struggled to compose herself in the wake of his unprecedented attack.

Tears sprang to her eyes, and for a moment it looked as though her face would crumble, but even as he watched she took a deep, steadying breath and her face and eyes hardened. "That's the worst thing you've ever said to me, Ron Weasley," she said in a small, tight voice, "and it will be the last! I'm NEVER talking to you again, EVER!"

She turned away from him quickly, then, shrugging off the hand Harry laid on her shoulder, stalked briskly off down the corridor and around the corner.

Ron turned now to stare at Harry, mouth slightly open, still unable to quite believe what he had just said. Harry, staring back at him, still in shock at having heard one of his best friends speak to his other best friend in such a manner, slowly shook his head.

"A bit rough on her, Ron," he said quietly, "especially that part about Gryffindor House. Let's go after her. Maybe you can still-"

Harry never finished his sentence because it was at that moment that they heard the screams from up ahead, around the corner in the corridor. A scream of alarm followed by a muted thud- the sound of a body hitting the wall or floor hard, followed again by a scream of pain. And then, as they were still paralyzed, rooted to the spot, staring at each other, a panicked cry; "Harry, Ron, get out of here! Go- RUN!"

Shock gave way to comprehension, comprehension gave way to horror. Ron and Harry both swiveled their heads toward the screams, and both at once gave voice to a single cry of their own- "HERMIONE!!!" Then they were running, rounding the corner at breakneck speed...

In the hospital room, Ron raised Hermione's hand to his lips and kissed it gently. He squeezed his eyes tightly shut, but a single tear escaped and slid slowly down his cheek. A moan was wrenched from somewhere deep in his gut. The really painful memories were about to begin.

They rounded the corner at breakneck speed, just as a green flash rent the air in front of them. A curtain of shimmering green fire hung in the air several feet from them for a period of a few seconds; it extended from floor to ceiling, from one wall of the corridor to the other. Then it faded and the air was clear again, except for the faintest bit of shimmer like heat haze. But as Harry and Ron, barely slowing, reached the place where the green curtain had been, they slammed into an invisible barrier with the force of running dead on into a brick wall. Dazed and winded, they slumped momentarily against the barrier as a horrible scene unfolded before them.

A tall figure in black robes was standing on the other side of the barrier, facing them. A voluminous hood cast the figure's face in deep shadow. One hand held a wand that pointed at Harry and Ron and still glowed faintly green, presumably from the aftereffects of the spell that had just created the barrier. The other hand pinned a struggling Hermione to the corridor wall by her throat.

The hooded figure had yet to look in her direction at all. It still faced Harry and Ron, and now a low, vicious laugh emanated from deep within the hood. "Well, isn't this delightful," the figure hissed. "Harry Potter- we meet again."

Ron was dimly aware of pummeling the barrier in desperation, of screaming Hermione's name, of seeing her struggles weaken, of thinking that he was watching her die. He was dimly aware that Harry, beside him, was frantic, screaming at the hooded figure- the Dark Lord, obviously, Ron thought with detachment- to let Hermione go and face him like a man. "She means nothing to you!" Harry cried, "I'm the one you want, come and get me! Just PUT- HER-DOWN!"

The figure laughed again and then replied, "She means something to you, though, doesn't she, boy? Indeed, I should think she means a great deal to you- and to your little friend there- the way you both are carrying on. And I think I know just the way to exploit this happy little scenario. Oh, yes."

Beside him, Ron heard Harry breathe the words, "Oh no. No, he can't do that- no, this isn't happening- no, he CAN'T do THAT!" Ron's mind raced, trying to grasp the meaning of Harry's words, but the only answer that came to him couldn't be true- was too horrible to contemplate. "Harry," he gasped, "Harry, you don't think- you don't think he means to-" Harry turned slowly to face him, panting. The look on his face was that of someone who has just been kicked in the stomach- several times. That look was all it took to convince Ron that was EXACTLY what Harry thought.

"No," Ron whispered, "he can't. "I can't watch that, Harry- I'll go bonkers. I'll go stark raving mad!"

Suddenly, Harry grabbed him by the shoulder and started hauling him backward away from the barrier. "No- NO!" Ron shouted, struggling. "We can't just leave her there, that's not what I meant at all- Harry, we can't just go and LEAVE-"

"Ron," Harry said in a voice that sounded brittle, as though it might crack at any second, and his sanity with it, "We're not leaving. Just backing up a little. Come on, we have to try to magic this barrier away. Beating on it with our fists isn't doing any good. Get your wand out and HELP me!"

"It didn't do any good," Ron whispered, his lips moving against Hermione's icy hand. "Nothing we tried did any good. Oh God, Hermione! I'm so sorry I let you down."

He raised his head as he felt a hand grip his shoulder. Harry was beside him. "I told her she didn't belong in Gryffindor," Ron choked. "I told her she wasn't brave enough- and she, she spit right in the Dark Lord's face! And after what he had-just-done to her...it was the bravest act I ever saw." They were silent for a moment.

"Harry," Ron asked brokenly, "what if she never wakes up? What if she dies and the last thing I ever said to her..." He broke off.

"That's not going to happen," Harry said with quiet conviction. "She isn't going to die- we won't let her. We're going to stay right here, you and I; as long as we're here with her, she'll be okay. We'll lend her our strength and she'll make it, I promise you, Ron. She will."

Silently he added, she will because she has to. She has to because if she dies, then I will too. Watching her die... knowing it's my fault...it would kill me.

Several days passed, during which Harry and Ron kept a constant vigil at Hermione's side. They ate and slept in the small hospital room, leaving for only half an hour each day to shower and change. This they did in turns, never together; so that at least one of them always remained beside her, sitting on the edge of the bed, holding her hand, stroking her hair, reading aloud to her from one of her books. Fortunately, as they were already stressed practically beyond endurance, they remained unaware of how close her parents came to having her removed to a muggle hospital before Dumbledore convinced them that the best place for their daughter was among friends.

Others came and went from the room; Dumbledore himself spent several hours each day there and of course Madam Pomfrey was always bustling in and out. Professor McGonagall came often between classes and during her lunch hour to sit with her brightest student, and even surly Snape seemed to have taken a personal interest in her case and stopped by several times. Hagrid would come whenever he could find an hour out of his busy dual schedule as school gamekeeper and Care of Magical Creatures teacher. He would sit in a chair beside her bed, holding her small hand in his massive one, while tears slid constantly down his weathered face and lost themselves in his bushy beard.

One day as Harry was in his dormitory changing hurriedly, he was accosted by the other 6th year Gryffindors- all of them; Seamus, Dean, Neville, Lavender, and Parvati. They, like the rest of the student body, were aware that Hermione had been attacked by Voldemort and that her life hung by a thread- they were not aware, however, that the nature of the attack had been sexual. Only Harry, Ron, Draco and the faculty knew that. They all clamored to be taken to see Hermione; apparently they had been trying to gain entrance to her room but were repeatedly thwarted by Madame Pomfrey, acting on Dumbledore's instructions. Harry, with dark smudges under his eyes, was far too exhausted to make a stand against his five determined classmates, and figured they had a right to visit Hermione anyway, so after clearing it with Dumbledore, he let them accompany him back to the hospital room.

They all crowded in together, shuffling their feet and looking in dismay at Hermione's pale, still form until Neville abruptly burst into tears and the others led him away. All except Lavender, who approached the bed and did something Harry and Ron (being guys) would never have expected; reaching into a fold of her robe, she pulled out a hairbrush. She sat down at the head of the bed and spent the next half hour gently brushing and braiding Hermione's long hair. Once done she stood up, slipped the brush back into her robe, touched first Harry and then Ron very lightly on the shoulder, and left without a word.

And then there was Draco. He would come striding into the room several times a day, looking, if possible, both casual and purposeful at the same time. Only the color high in his cheeks gave any indication that he had often approached the room at a run- and of course Harry and Ron did not know this. He never said a word to either of them. Sometimes, if he was between classes, he would stay for only ten minutes; other times he would stay for hours. One night he attempted to sleep in the room, curled up with his silvery head on his cloak in the corner opposite Harry and Ron, but Snape came to collect him around midnight, apparently having been informed by the other Slytherins that he was not in his dormitory.

Upon entering the room, his routine was always the same; without so much as a glance at Ron or Harry he would cross quickly to the bed and, placing a hand on either side of Hermione's pillow, would lean close over her face, his pale eyes searching intently for any sign of improvement. Never finding any, he would retire to the foot of the bed and seat himself on the floor, back leaning against the footboard, knees drawn up to his chest. He usually continued to ignore Harry completely, but often engaged in hostile glaring bouts with Ron. Whenever he would leave again Ron and Harry would exchange puzzled glances and shrugs, still being completely unaware of the friendship that had existed between Hermione and their old enemy for the past year.

On her eighth day of unconsciousness, Hermione dreamed:

She was fighting desperately; kicking out at her captor, beating her fists against the arm that held her to the wall, but it was no use. The arm was like iron, and the more she struggled, the harder it squeezed her throat. Finally, her struggles began to subside, as just breathing was becoming enough of a challenge. Her vision was going dark around the edges. She could hear Harry and Ron shouting her name. It sounded like they were a hundred miles away, calling her through a long and echoing tunnel.

Finally, Voldemort turned to face her. Upon finding her dangling limp from his hand, he first gave her an irritated shake, then muttered "Stupid girl," trained his wand on her, and hissed a single word. Hermione came back to full consciousness with a start. Her hazel eyes flew open and her head, which had slumped forward, now jerked back, hitting the stone wall hard. She gasped and cried out in pain. Her eyes widened as she stared first at her attacker, then over his shoulder to where Harry and Ron stood, now several feet back from the barrier, heads bowed close together over their wands, contemplating what spells to try.

"Oh...no," she whispered. "Still...here. Why-don't-get-away."

"What a question," Voldemort replied. "And people say you are supposed to be clever. They are still here because either one of them would gladly give his life for your safety. Which is precisely why what I am about to do will be so much fun. I came here to kill Harry Potter, but now I don't think I will- not today, at any rate. No, I think today I will content myself with torturing him- by way of you."

Hermione, who was indeed a very clever girl, caught his meaning at once, and renewed her struggles frantically. Her movement caught Ron's eye, causing him to raise his head, panic, forget instantly about trying to magic the barrier away, and race back up to it to recommence pounding and kicking it while shouting her name.

Voldemort, meanwhile, finally removed his hand from Hermione's throat at the same time as he drove one knee between her legs. As air rushed back into her lungs, she slumped forward onto his chest, despite her best efforts not to. She felt like the corridor was pitching and whirling as she sucked in great desperate breaths, and was helpless to deter her attacker from shoving up her skirt, pushing aside her white cotton panties, and grasping her hips with cold, clawlike hands. Vaguely she heard a cruel, taunting voice in her ear; "Scream loudly, girl; we want to put on a first-rate show for your little friends."

Her terrified eyes sought Ron's, met them, locked on them... and then she was ripped in two. Her back arched and her head flew backward, slamming the wall yet again. She stared up at the ceiling, seeing stars explode before her eyes, and opened her mouth to scream, but no sound would come. There was no sound she could make to adequately voice the agony she felt.

But Harry and Ron were screaming for her. She could hear them, across what seemed to be a vast distance. They were no longer calling her name, no longer using words at all. Their screams were the sounds of madmen, the sounds of animals. They must feel what I feel, she thought confusedly. They must feel this same pain, only they have the breath to voice it.

In a way, she was right.

And then she had her breath back and she could scream, and she wanted to scream, she wanted that release oh so badly, and she drew in a breath to do it- and stopped. A small voice in the back of her mind, a voice beyond the pain of her ravaged body, said, DON'T. It's what he wants; it would be music to his ears; so don't, just don't. So she clenched her jaw and gritted her teeth, and she didn't scream, not once.

She couldn't control the tears, though. Tears of anguish poured down her face as she stared fixedly upward.

As she felt herself drifting back toward unconsciousness, not from lack of breath this time but from sheer volume of pain, her head rolled to the side and she found herself gazing straight into the eyes of Harry and Ron. She could see their fists still pounding the barrier, their lips still moving, but could no longer hear them at all. It was their eyes that fixated her; deep blue like the depths of the ocean, verdant green like a cool forest glen. And both blue and green eyes streamed tears that mirrored her own. I want to crawl inside, she thought disjointedly. I want to lose myself in that forest; I want to drown in that ocean.

She looked from Ron, who she had always thought would be the one she would someday offer her virginity to, over to Harry, her most beloved friend. Even through the haze of her pain her heart contracted at the sight of his face. He looked...Destroyed. Without quite being aware of what she was doing, she reached out a hand toward him in an attempt to comfort him.

And then it was over. Voldemort withdrew and stepped back, leaving her pressed against the wall, gasping, her body cold and beginning to shake as she went into shock. And now Voldemort was leaning forward toward her, his hooded face inches from her own, taunting her again.

"You weren't nearly as vocal as I could have hoped for," he murmured, "but I still must say that I never dreamed tormenting the Potter boy could be so... thoroughly enjoyable. You, my dear, were a magnificent screw! And if I'm not much mistaken, I believe I had the honor of being your first? I do hope you'll remember me fondly." And his cruel, hissing laughter filled her ears.

She felt her face contort in disgust, and then she reacted, swiftly and without conscious thought. She spat straight into the hood that hovered inches from her face. There was a sharp intake of breath- it was a furious sound- and a hand shot out with the speed of a striking snake, grabbed a fistful of her hair, yanked her head forward, and smashed it back with brutal force against the wall. Twice.

White pain exploded through her head and she felt her legs give way. She slid down the wall and landed on her knees at Voldemort's feet. She felt herself listing to one side and put out an arm to stop herself. Even through her intense pain and shock, she was fiercely determined not to collapse- not all the way- not to give Voldemort that power, that mastery over her. Supporting herself on one arm, with the other hand clasped to her head, a single thought ran through her mind; I will not lie down, I will not lie down!

Because her eyes were squeezed tightly shut, she never saw the booted foot kick out toward her midsection. She felt its impact, though, as every bit of air was forcibly expelled from her lungs. Both her hands flew to wrap around her stomach, and consequently she pitched forward, doubled over, and whacked her forehead against the stone floor.

The world became a black void; she felt like she was falling, falling, even though she knew she had already hit the ground. She could hear wind rushing past her ears, but her lungs were empty; empty and burning. Air, air everywhere, she thought ridiculously, and not a breath for me.

In some far off and no longer important place, she could still hear Voldemort's taunting voice, directed this time at her friends. "We shall meet another day, Harry Potter," Voldemort was saying. "I could kill you now, but it would pleasure me more to let you watch the girl suffer and die first. And make no mistake that she will die; even now she is sinking deep into shock. And I want you to remember, boy- always remember- that the only reason this happened to her is that she's your friend."

The next instant, Voldemort was gone, and she sensed rather than saw Harry and Ron hit the ground a few feet away from her. And then Harry was there, he was right there, sobbing her name and reaching out for her, and she raised her head a few inches and looked at him, his face swimming sickly before her, and her eyes said what her mouth could not- Harry, her eyes screamed, I can't breathe!

And then he was pulling her into his arms, and his voice was right there in her ear; she could hear it even over the rushing of the wind. "Oh no," he was saying, "Oh God, oh no, you gotta breathe- Hermione, please!" Her head fell to his shoulder and suddenly she felt safe again, safe and loved, but ah God her lungs were burning and she STILL-COULDN'T-

"BREATHE!" she screamed, bolting upright in bed, drenched in cold sweat. "I can't BREATHE!" Then, belying her frantic words, she drew in a deep, shuddering breath and collapsed backward- right into Harry's arms.

Harry, reflexes honed by years of playing quidditch, had dived forward from his perch on the edge of the bed, just as Hermione had begun to slump back, catching her mid-fall. She now looked up blinking, her eyes slowly coming into focus, the indistinct form above her gradually resolving itself into Harry's familiar face.

"Harry," she said, staring up in bewilderment, "I couldn't breathe."

"I know you couldn't," he replied gravely, as though what she had just said was the most sensible thing in the world, rather than a bit of incoherent nonsense. "I know you couldn't- I didn't think you'd ever breathe again. I thought for sure I had lost you, and-" twin tears, one from each of his vibrant green eyes, trickled down his face- "and I was so scared. God, Hermione, please don't ever scare me like that again!"

He laid her gently back against the pillow and kissed her forehead. "Never again," he repeated, and she felt one of his tears splash down on her face.

Hermione stared up at the ceiling for a moment, trying to get her bearings. She was in no pain; Dumbledore and Madame Pomfrey had healed the worst of the physical damage- though no magic or medicine could ever restore her shattered virginity- but she was weak and badly disoriented. Her eyes wandered slowly over the small, square, sparsely furnished room. Once she understood that she was, in fact, in the hospital wing, she was surprised not to find herself in the regular ward with its two long rows of beds. This is one of only four private hospital rooms at Hogwarts, she thought, reserved for only the most critical cases. She had read this once in "Hogwarts: A History", though she had never before been in any of the four rooms. A cold, sick feeling clenched her stomach as she realized that; the only reason they would put me in here is that they didn't expect me to wake up. They expected me to DIE!

She expelled a shaky breath as that realization dawned, and then her eyes settled on a huddled form sitting on the floor: Ron. He was next to the bed, on the side opposite Harry, leaning against the wall with his knees drawn up and his head resting on them. His arms were crisscrossed over the top of his head and he was sitting quite still.

"Ron?" she asked shakily, but he did not look up. She glanced anxiously back over to Harry, but there was no help to be found there. Overcome with emotion, Harry had lowered his face into his hands and so was unaware of her worried, questioning gaze.

She turned back toward Ron. "Ron-" she said again, tentatively, and then was struck by a vivid memory of Ron shouting at her in the corridor as Harry looked on, thunderstruck, the Marauder's Map dangling forgotten from his hands. The memory played like a silent movie- she couldn't hear what Ron was saying, but the look on his face- the pure rage...she tried hard to remember what she had done to make him so angry, but she couldn't.

She felt tears well up in her eyes. Her waking memories of the time before, during and after her attack consisted of brief, vivid images with many hazy, grey spaces in between. At the moment, she had no recollection of Ron cradling her in his arms and confessing his love. Clearly, she now thought, whatever she had done was so bad that even with all that had happened, Ron was still furious with her. She couldn't stand that thought. "Ron," she said a third time, her voice now choked with tears, "whatever I did, I'm so sorry...am- am I still not forgiven?"

At this, Ron's head shot up and his eyes locked instantly on hers. She realized with a swift intake of breath that he looked just awful- his face haggard, his eyes ringed with fatigue, their expression haunted. The look he gave her was one of pure, soul-deep anguish. Hermione's heart leapt into her throat; seeing that look on his face hurt her in an almost physical sense. She wanted to throw herself out of bed and into his arms, but lacked the strength to do so. "Ron!" she cried simply, flinging an arm out toward him.

This was the exact gesture she had made moments after the attack, and it had the same result now. Ron virtually hurled himself to her side. "How could you say that?!" he cried raggedly. "How could you even think-" and then his words were broken off as he covered her face in kisses: her forehead, her cheeks, the tip of her nose.

"I thought I'd never get to apologize," he whispered, several long seconds later, as he cupped her face in both his hands. "I lost more hope with every hour that passed.. I was so sure that you would- that I would- argh!" He shook his head as if to clear it, and took several deep breaths before speaking again.

"I thought for sure I had lost you," he said finally, echoing Harry's words of a few minutes ago, "and I was so afraid that the last memory you would have- would ever have of me- was when I was being such a- a complete asshole!"

At this, Hermione's face broke into a wan smile.

"I was so afraid," Ron continued, "that you wouldn't remember what I told you after...after..."

"It's okay, you can say it," Hermione whispered, but he shook his head.

"And you don't remember," he added, "do you?"

"No," she breathed, staring up into his eyes. "What did you say?"

For a moment, Ron struggled to speak, and it looked as if no words would come. Then he cried with surprising vehemence, "I said I'm dead in love with you! And I have been for years!"

Harry, who had raised his head again to watch this exchange, saw nearly identical expressions of astonishment appear on both Ron's and Hermione's faces. Then, with a small, incoherent cry, Hermione flung her arms around Ron's neck and pulled him fiercely down into her embrace. Neither Ron nor Hermione noticed when Harry winced as if in pain and turned away again.

Hermione used up the little strength she had in her fierce embrace of Ron and, still, holding him close, slipped into a sleep that was, for the time being at least, deep and dreamless. An entirely wholesome, healing sort of sleep. It was a good half hour before Ron ever so gently extricated himself from her grasp and sat up, facing Harry across the bed. He took one of Hermione's hands in his, and noticed that Harry took the other.

"Well," Ron said quietly but with immense relief, "she made it. She's back. So what do we do now?"

Harry looked at Ron over Hermione's sleeping form. Ron drew in his breath, taken aback by the intensity he saw in Harry's eyes. "I think you already know the answer to that question," Harry said, eyes glittering dangerously. "What we do now is track down the sorry son of a bitch who did this. What we do now, Ron, is go to bloody war!"

Hermione tossed her head and whimpered, her hands gripping the blankets of the hospital bed so tightly her knuckles were white. Several hours had passed since she had lapsed into sleep in Ron's arms, and her nightmare had returned in full force.

...Her legs gave way and she slid down the wall, landing on her knees at Voldemort's feet. She felt herself listing to one side and put out an arm to stop herself. Even through her intense pain and shock, she was fiercely determined not to collapse- not all the way- not to give Voldemort that power, that mastery over her. Supporting herself on one arm, with the other hand clasped to her head, a single thought ran through her mind; I will not lie down, I will not lie down!

But here the dream changed; it was now no longer an accurate reliving of events, but pure nightmare. This time, instead of having her eyes squeezed shut, they were wide open and fixed on Harry and Ron. As she watched, the two of them stopped pummeling the barrier, looking defeated. Slowly, wearily, they turned their backs on her... and started to walk away.

No- NO! She tried to scream at them; don't leave me! PLEASE don't leave me here! But the words wouldn't come. Desperately, she tried to throw herself toward them, but her body was leaden and would not obey her. And then they were gone, around the bend in the corridor and out of sight. She caught a movement out of the corner of her eye and turned back toward Voldemort just in time to see the booted foot rushing toward her, but this time it wasn't aimed at her stomach; this time it was coming right at her face and she knew suddenly that this was it, final curtain, lights out, and she opened her mouth one last time to scream-

"Don't leave me!" she cried hoarsely, once again sitting bolt upright in bed without being consciously aware of doing so. It was dark in the room- the middle of the night- and something was restraining her; she began to thrash about frantically. It was the bedclothes; she was all tangled up. Then strong arms encircled her, pulling her into a tight embrace, holding her fast though she continued to struggle.

Her hoarse cries gave way to tears, and she sobbed herself into exhaustion, vaguely aware of the gentle voice shushing her, of the hand stroking her braided hair, of the steady heartbeat within the solid chest she was pressed against. These things soothed her gradually until she lay quite still, her head nestled comfortably in the hollow of (who's holding me? Harry? Ron?) the boy's throat. Finally, as her breathing lost the ragged catch of too many tears and returned to normal, she felt a feeling of security wash over her in a slow wave- just as she had when Harry first gathered her into his arms after the rape, she felt safe again, and loved.

What a stupid dream, she chided herself as conscious thought returned. They would never leave me, never. Still, it seemed so real, so vibrant, as the worst nightmares often do. She was aware that she was still trembling slightly.

"I had the most awful dream," she said once she trusted her voice. "I dreamed you left me alone with... him. And then he killed me," she continued in a rush, feeling faintly foolish now but wanting to get the images from the dream out of her mind and into the open, feeling it was important, like sucking poison from a wound. "I woke up just as he- just as I-" she shuddered, and felt the arms about her tighten protectively.

"It's dumb, I know," she said, almost apologetically. "You didn't leave- you never left- and you never would.....Harry...?" There was no response, so she tried again. "Ron...?"

And now she felt more than heard the boy sigh, and then a soft voice from just above her head whispered "Accio wand," and a moment later, "Lumos."

The room was bathed in a dim glow; she could sense it through her eyelids though she still had her eyes closed. Then she felt herself being lowered gently back onto her pillow and she opened her eyes to stare straight into the narrowed, intense eyes of-

"Draco?!" she gasped in amazement.

He was leaning close over her, so close that his silver blond hair fell forward over his brow and brushed her forehead. With his hands planted on either side of her pillow, he was regarding her intently as he had done countless times over the last several days, but now she was looking back, and concern battled with relief in his pale blue eyes.

"Wha- what are you doing here?" she stammered. "It's the middle of the night! Professor Snape- you'll get in so much trouble! And the other Slytherins- what will they say? They'd make your life miserable if they knew you were here, that you're friends with a Gryffindor. You have to go, now! Sneak back to your dorm. I'm not worth the kind of trouble you'll be in!"

Tears were standing out in her eyes again, but this time they were tears of distress over the welfare of her friend. Draco, however, set his jaw determinedly and refused to budge.

"I heard you woke up earlier today," he said abruptly. "Did Potter or Weasley tell you how long you were out?" She shook her head mutely. "Over a week," he said, then added as her eyes widened, "and I was here every single day, for hours. I would have been here twenty-four hours a day just like they were, but Dumbledore wouldn't allow it." His voice was tinged with resentment. "So needless to say," he added, "the Slytherins know. Everyone knows. Including Professor Snape."

Over her intake of breath, he continued; "As for the Slytherins-" here he looked away, not quite able to meet her eyes as he said in a rush, "they can go srew themselves, the lot of them. All of them put together aren't worth my friendship with you." When he met her eyes again, the expression on his face was one she had never seen before; a very un-Draco-like expression that bordered on...shyness. "And as for Snape," he said, "he's spent quite a bit of time in here himself. He was the one who carried you up here, in fact- I bet Potter and Weasley didn't tell you that either, did they?"

"No," she said, then, feeling a need to defend Harry and Ron, she added, "I wasn't awake for very long- ten minutes, maybe, before I conked back out again."

"Well he did, and he's been here several times since to check on you, and to bring you potions that he thought might revive you," Draco said. Hermione felt oddly touched.

"He knows I'm here now- he tried to get me to leave earlier, but in the end I made him see sense. I couldn't stand the thought of you waking up alone in the dark, and he finally agreed it was for the best that someone stay with you- and tomorrow's Sunday, it's not like I have to be up early for class- so here I am." He smiled ruefully.

Hermione's mind was in a whirl- Professor Snape, who had called her an insufferable know-it-all more times than she could count, concerned about her? Draco willing to reveal their friendship and bear the wrath of the entire Slytherin House in order sit awake with her through the night? Finally she seized on one thing he had said that caused her even more confusion than the rest; alone in the dark. He couldn't stand the thought of her waking up alone in the dark, so there he was. But then-

"Where are Harry and Ron?" she asked suddenly, propping herself up on her elbows and quickly scanning the room. "I thought they would be here- I thought they were always here." She suddenly felt a knot of cold fear deep in her stomach, remembering her dream.

Draco looked pained, but when he spoke his answer was short and brutally honest; he had never been taught to soften a blow, either physically or emotionally. "They're gone," he said flatly. "They went AWOL shortly after dark. Not a lot of the students know yet, but the faculty is in a state. I figure they've gone after the Dark Lord- to avenge you."

Out of the corner of his eye, Ron saw Harry gesturing and looked to the left. Seeing that he had caught Ron's attention, Harry gave a jerk of his head and another follow me gesture, then swerved his broom down and to the left, toward a stand of trees. Ron followed, relieved at the prospect of a rest on the ground. The two boys had been flying for a couple of hours now; they were protected from the worst of the wind by flying leathers they had filched from the quidditch supply shed and by warm woolen traveling cloaks, but even so, by now Ron could feel a deep, aching cold throughout his body. He thought of the bedroll he had slung across his back, and hoped they were landing for the remainder of the night.

The boys touched down seconds apart, each dismounting stiffly, numb from cold, and leaning their brooms carefully against the trunk of the nearest tree. Their eyes met for a moment, the only part of their faces visible, as they both wore woolen scarves wrapped several time around their necks and chins, and up over their mouths and noses. In nearly identical gestures, they pulled the scarves down past their noses and mouths, then breathed deeply, their breath puffing white in the chill air. Ron ran both hands through his hair while Harry, looking weary beyond belief, pressed the heel of one hand hard against the scar on his forehead and sagged back against a tree.

"Hurts?" Ron grunted, knowing, by virtue of long friendship, that Harry would understand his single-word inquiry.

"Yeah...we're getting closer," Harry replied, then shut his eyes, still massaging his forehead with the heel of his hand. "Let's stay the night here- we'll need to be well rested for what we hope to do." He shrugged off his bedroll and then slid slowly down the trunk of the tree until he was sitting at its base, his head drooping forward tiredly. Ron sighed, shrugged off his own bedroll, and silently walked off into the trees to gather firewood.

He returned several moments later with an armful of wood, knelt before Harry, who hadn't moved, and piled the wood carefully on the ground. Then, taking out his wand, he traced a circle in the dirt around the wood and murmured a simple spell to keep the fire he was about to set contained within the circle. Finally, he touched the tip of his wand lightly to the uppermost piece of wood and muttered "Incendio." A small, cheerful, smokeless blaze appeared at once. Ron murmured one more spell which would allow the fire to burn all night and give off a quantity of heat far out of proportion to its small size, then returned his attention to Harry.

"Why didn't you ever tell me before?" Ron asked, "about your scar working like a tracking device? Why didn't you ever tell me it could lead you to...You-Know-Who?"

Harry raised his tired eyes to Ron's. "I didn't know for a long time," he said. "I only started to suspect last year. And even once I was fairly certain, it didn't seem all that important...not in an immediate sense, anyway. I mean, I always knew I'd hunt the bastard down eventually- if I didn't manage to kill him- or vice versa- during one of the times he came after me- but I also always figured I'd graduate Hogwarts first, and maybe get some Auror training too, you know? But now, this...what he did to Hermione...it's different from all the times he attacked me personally. Then I could bide my time, tell myself to keep learning, keep getting stronger, be patient...but not anymore. This needs to be answered RIGHT NOW."

He shifted his gaze so that he was looking past Ron, out into the darkness. "Mess with my friends and I WILL come after you, you dirty son of a bitch!"

"Don't you think maybe that's the point?" Ron asked quietly. "Don't you think maybe the whole intent was to lure you away from Hogwarts before you're ready?"

Harry was quiet for a moment, reflecting. "I don't think so," he said at last. "I don't think this was some elaborate plan to lure me into a trap. He could have killed me right there at school; in fact, I'm sure that's what he came to do- he couldn't have had any idea that Hermione would walk around that corner first. He probably just assumed that I would be in the lead. And then when he saw her he just...acted impulsively. Impulsively decided to rape her and impulsively decided to leave me alive in order to suffer by witnessing her suffering. He means to finish me off in his own good time, after he thinks I've suffered enough. No, I think us coming after him is the last thing he'll expect. But even if I did think it was a trap, Ron-" now he shifted his eyes back to Ron's and Ron could see green fires blazing in their depths- "even if I did think it was a trap I wouldn't turn back. Would you?"

Ron paused for only a second, then shook his head decisively. "No. Hell no."

A moment later Ron unfurled his bedroll and retrieved a bag of food he had secured in the very middle. He tossed Harry a sandwich and the two friends ate in silence, then settled down on opposite sides of the warm little fire to sleep.

An indeterminate amount of time later, Ron opened his eyes to see Harry sitting up again, staring fixedly into the flames with his jaw clenched and tears slipping silently down his cheeks. "Harry?" he said, raising himself on one elbow.

"Uh?" said Harry, eyes not leaving the flames.

When next Ron spoke, his voice was quiet and somehow..defeated. "You love her too, don't you?"

Slowly, Harry dropped his face into his hands. It was all the answer Ron needed.


"DAMN them!" Hermione cried, much to Draco's surprise. "How could they? How could they do something so damn bloody stupid?! Just when I really need them they go off like- like- like lambs to the slaughter- trying- trying to be fucking gallant- trying to avenge me! Damn bloody fools!"

Draco had never heard such language issue from her mouth before. He was fairly impressed.

The look of horror that had spread across her face when Draco had first told her of Harry and Ron's disappearance had been replaced first by mounting distress and now by pure fury. Her hazel eyes were flashing; her cheeks flushed with anger. At least she looks healthy, like herself again, Draco thought. He shuddered, thinking of the eight long days she had spent looking- well, dead.

And he understood her concern over her two oldest friends- at least in theory- but he couldn't fathom her intense rage.

"I don't understand," he said. "Concern I get- but this anger- why? I'm kind of impressed, myself. Seems Potter and Weasley have considerably more balls than I ever gave them credit for. So- enlighten me."

"More balls..." she echoed faintly, and pressed the heels of her hands hard against her puffy eyes, trying to get control of herself.

"The reason I'm angry," she said after a moment, not looking up and grinding the words out between her teeth, "is that all this- this macho, chivalrous BULLSHIT is so NOT what I want or need right now! I wanted- I wanted them to be here, with me, I just wanted to try to- heal, to try to get on with my life and- and- HOW THE HELL AM I SUPPOSED TO DO THAT WHEN MY EVERY WAKING MOMENT IS GOING TO BE SPENT IN MORTAL TERROR UNTIL THEY EITHER COME BACK OR- or-" her words were choked off by fresh sobs. Draco reached out, intending to draw her into his arms again, but she shrugged him off.

After several moments of weeping into her drawn up knees, she raised her head and dashed at the tears on her cheeks. It was an angry gesture reminiscent of the one Draco himself had made all those days ago, sitting on the corridor floor. She seemed calm again, but her face was now more than flushed- it was hectic with color and her eyes were over bright. Draco thought she looked fevered.

"And another thing," she said, as though she had never stopped talking, "all this revenge shit- it's plain insulting. Why the hell should THEY avenge me!?"

Draco was taken aback. "Are- are you saying that you don't think you deserve to be avenged? Because let me tell you, if I were to be given a shot at You-Know-Who right now-"

"That's not what I'm saying!" she interrupted impatiently. "What I'm saying is, Voldemort did what he did to ME, not to them and certainly not to you! You weren't even there! So why the hell shouldn't I be the one to avenge MYSELF!"

Draco was gaping at her. "Hermione," he said, sounding uncharacteristicly shaken, "you said his name."

"You're damn right I said his name," she nearly spat. "Harry earned that right long ago, though blood, and now so have I!"

Draco was now more than fairly impressed- he was deeply impressed- and more than a little unnerved. Harry and Ron would not have been so surprised- they had both seen Hermione show her grit on numerous occasions- but Draco was really only familiar with library Hermione, so he was seeing a whole new side of her. (Well, his mind whispered, there was that time she slapped me...) They both lapsed into silence for several minutes.

Abruptly, Hermione heaved off the blankets. "All right, that's it then," she said, and swung her legs over the side of the bed. For the first time in eight days, her feet touched the floor.

"What- what's it?" Draco asked warily; this turn of events was making him distinctly uneasy.

"I know what I have to do," she said decisively. "Harry and Ron don't have much of a start- four hours, maybe five- right? And they don't even know exactly where they're going. If Harry's doing what I think he is- using his scar like a tracking device- (I began to suspect he could do that last year)- then the closer he gets the more painful it will become, and the slower they'll have to go. So I could still beat them there easily- if I knew where to find Voldemort. And once there I could take my own revenge, and not have to worry about the safety of my stupid, foolhardy friends."

Draco, who had been listening to this plan with mounting horror, seized desperately on its major flaw. "Hermione, the thing is- well, beside the fact that you are out of your everloving mind- you DON'T know where Voldemort is. So why don't you just lie back-"

"No, I don't know where to find him," she interrupted with quiet intensity, "but you do."

Draco rocked backwards with the impact of her quiet words. He was silent for a moment and when he next spoke, he seemed to be choosing his words very carefully.

"Hermione, I'm not going to attempt to deny my family's connection with the Dark Lord and the Death Eaters; that would be utterly pointless. But I want you to know- it is CRUCIAL to me that you know- that after what happened to you, this is one member of the League of Future Death Eaters who is canceling his initiation ball! It's only natural for you to assume that I'm right in with that group, but please believe that as of right now, that's changing. For good. You have my word on that."

His ice blue eyes held hers, searching deeply, probing...for what? What did he want from her? Acceptance? It dawned on her with mild surprise that that was exactly what he wanted- for her to accept him as Draco, just Draco. Not a Malfoy, the son of one of Voldemort's most prominent supporters, not a Slytherin, not a member of the League of- of junior arseholes- just Draco, her friend. She thought a moment about how to frame her reply.

"I wasn't trying to accuse you of anything," she said finally. "I don't even know whether you are personally aware of Voldemort's whereabouts or not, but I know you know people that are. All I meant to say was that I know you have connections and I'm asking them to use them. One last time, for me. Because," she added with a defiant tilt to her chin, "I couldn't possibly remain friends with someone who would let my other friends go to their deaths without helping me save them. So- will you help me?"

She watched the conflict that was playing out behind his pale eyes. His reluctance was clear. Finally he dropped his gaze from her and his shoulders slumped slightly in defeat. "All right," he said. "All right, Hermione. But not without deep misgivings, I have to tell you that. I honestly feel you've been through enough and that Potter and Weasley can take care of themselves- but if you insist, then all right."

"I do insist," she said, but gently. "And thank you." She reached up and pressed her palm to his pale cheek. His eyes flew back to hers, startled by this display of affection, but in the next instant she was all business again.

"Go and pull your strings then," she said, her voice brisk. "As for me, I'm going to sneak up to my dorm for my clothes and wand. I'll meet you back here in- how long do you need? Will half an hour suffice?" Draco nodded. "Good. Half an hour then. Oh- and we'll need brooms. Can you get those too?" Another nod from Draco. "Great," she said, and stood up.

Suddenly pressing a hand to her forehead, she swayed dangerously on her feet. "Hermione-" Draco reached for her, but she brushed his hand away. "It's just a little head rush, that's all," she said impatiently. "I mean, I've been lying down for eight days, right? It's to be expected. I'll just walk it off." She took a step toward the door- and collapsed.

Swift and silent, drawing on the same seeker's reflexes Harry had used earlier, Draco threw himself forward and caught her before she hit the floor. Having seized her under the arms from behind, he hauled her back to the bed and laid her diagonally across it, her legs dangling over one edge, one arm flung over the other. Without conscious thought, he found himself straddling her, their bodies pressed close together.

If Harry and Ron had chanced to walk in upon this scene, they probably would have murdered him first and asked questions later.

Draco could feel the erratic beating of her heart beneath the terrified pounding of his own. Her eyes were open but unfocused. He took her face in both his hands and turned it up toward his, willing her to focus and look at him. "Hermione, snap out of it," he said in a low, urgent voice. "Hermione- look at me! Please?" There was no response. Her face was slack, hazel eyes devoid of expression.

Suddenly, to his own amazement, Draco yanked his hands away from her face as if her skin had burned him, balled them into tight fists, and slammed them down on the bed on either side of her head. "Goddamit, Granger, you little bitch, WHAT HAVE YOU DONE TO ME?!" he cried raggedly. There was fury in his voice, but in his eyes were only panic and despair. "Do you think I WANTED all this bloody chaos you've brought into my life?" he gasped. "Do you think I wanted to start questioning everything I was raised to believe in? Do you think I wanted to turn my back on the members of my own house? To be shunned by them forever? Do you think I wanted to..do you think I wanted to love you? YOU FRIGGIN MADE ME! And now you think you're just going to waltz off to that library in the sky and leave me in this mess!? Well, you've got another think coming, mudblood!" And he slapped her, hard.

There's no arguing with results. The slap brought her back. Her eyes shut tight, and when they opened again a second later they were clear, though they bore an expression of puzzlement and hurt. "Draco..?" she said, and without waiting for a reply, slapped him back with surprising strength for someone who had been catatonic three seconds before. She left a red handprint blazing on his pale cheek.

They stared at each other for a long, intense moment, breathing hard. "God Almighty, Hermione," Draco finally groaned, "I never wanted to love someone like this. I never wanted to be this vulnerable- to know such fear. You're going to be the death of me." Lowering his head, he kissed her deeply.

Hermione reacted without pausing to think or to rationalize. Her hands wound through Draco's silver-fine hair and she kissed him back passionately. They kissed urgently, almost frantically. It was the kind of kiss lovers might share who know they stand on the brink of Armageddon.

And for Draco, at least, that was exactly how it felt- the end of the world. His world, which had begun to crumble the moment he had come across Hermione, pale and cold in Ron's arms, and learned that Voldemort- whom he had been taught to revere since he was a babe-in-arms- was responsible for the rape and nearly the murder of the only friend he actually valued; his world, which had begun to crumble then, finally came crashing all the way down around him with this kiss.

The Draco Malfoy he had always been- cold, calculating, detached, uncaring about anyone or anything save himself, his own best interests, and the cause he had been taught to believe in since earliest childhood- was utterly wiped out. Gone as completely as though he had never existed. He now belonged to Hermione, body, mind and soul. He was hers. He was (he thought despairingly) lost.

A moment later he pulled away and stood up shakily. He ran both hands through his near colorless hair, trying to compose himself, and looked down at Hermione, now raising herself on her elbows. The girl he loved. The girl he would kill or die for, if either was required to keep her safe and happy. He knelt in front of her and took both her hands in his. "I'm going after Potter and Weasley," he said. "I will bring them back safely- not for their sakes, but for yours. I swear it. I want you to stay here, and I don't want you to worry." Standing again, he turned for the door.

"NO." Draco stopped as he heard her stand up behind him. This time she kept her feet. "No," she said again, "I have to come."

He turned back to face her, his jaw set. "You can't seriously mean that. Hermione, you can't even make it across this room."

"I'll make it this time," she said, and her face matched his in stubbornness. "The alternative is unacceptable. Instead of lying here helplessly in mortal terror for two of the people I care most about in this world, now I'm supposed to lie here helplessly in mortal terror for three of the people I care most about in this world. I can not and will not accept that. And besides-" here she glanced away and swallowed hard before continuing- "there's something else. When I fainted just then, I saw..him. I saw Voldemort. Just as plain as if he were standing in this room. And he- he saw me too."

Draco didn't understand this, but he understood that it was important. He reached out and gripped her by the shoulders. "What do you mean, you saw him? How is that possible?"

"I don't know how it's possible," she said, shaking her head in frustration. Draco knew how much she hated not knowing the answer to a question. "But it was his doing, and I think he expected to see me dead, or close to it. That was his intention, after all- he left me alive, but only because he was sure I would die later. He wanted me to suffer and die slowly...for Harry's benefit. He said as much when- when he was done with me."

Draco felt a wave of cold, murderous rage wash over him. It was like nothing he had ever felt before. Which was saying something, for he was well acquainted with many varieties of rage. Always in the past, though, rage had come as a result of some injury or slight to himself. The rage he felt now on Hermione's behalf was a new experience altogether.

"-So when he saw me alive, awake and standing, he was furious," she said. "I saw it in his eyes- such anger. His face was contorted with it. And then he- he sneered at me and he reached out- reached toward me- and he clenched his fist. And it hurt- Draco, it hurt me, like all the blood in my veins turned to fire. It hurt until you slapped me and brought me out of it. See, that's the point- he can still hurt me. We're connected somehow, but I don't know how and I don't know how to free myself!" Her voice was rising; she seemed on the verge of hysterics. "And that's why I have to come," she said. "I have to kill him before he kills me, because he can- I know he can. He's just gathering his strength to attack me again. It's him or me. And if we don't reach him soon, it WILL be me. Draco, please don't leave me here to die all alone!"

"NO!" Draco cried hoarsely, and pulled her forward into a tight embrace. "No," he said again savagely, resting his chin on the top of her head, "No. You will not die- not while I have breath in my body."

He held her thus for a long time, trying desperately to determine the best coarse of action. His every instinct screamed at him to leave her there; Hogwarts was safe; he would have to be insane to take this girl, who could barely stand up on her own, into battle with him- for that was where he was going; to wage open war on the man his parents had raised him to serve.

And yet- if it was true that she was somehow connected to Voldemort and that he could hurt her- could kill her- no matter the distance between them, then she was no safer here than anywhere, no safer here than she would be right in Voldemort's lair. And at least if he kept her with him he would know if she went into another trance- he could bring her out of it again. If she stayed here alone in this room there would be no one to do that- she would remain in the trance until she died.

It was that thought that decided him- the thought of going and killing Voldemort and returning victorious with Potter and Weasley in tow only to find that he hadn't done it in time- to find that Voldemort had gathered sufficient strength to attack Hermione again before he, Draco, ever reached him. The thought of returning to find Hermione safely in bed in her hospital room, with Madam Pomfrey down the hall and Dumbledore right upstairs, but dead just the same- that thought was unendurable. That thought was awful beyond contemplation- so awful that his very body reacted to it by becoming physically ill. He managed- barely- to fight down a wave of nausea that threatened to engulf him, and then realized that he had broken out in a cold sweat. Just at the thought of losing her. How, he asked himself distractedly, how did it ever come to this?

"All right," he said finally, still with his chin resting atop her head. "You're coming. But I don't trust you to fly- you could go into another trance and fall off your broom. You're riding with me." He felt her nod against his chest.

"Let's go then," he said, stepping backward out of their embrace and pulling her by the hand toward the door. "If there's truth in what you said, we don't have a moment to spare."

Harry and Ron had been walking for years. At least, that's how it felt to the two fatigued boys. When they had packed up their camp and made ready to set off again, barely three hours after lying down to rest, Harry had shaken his head when Ron had mounted his broomstick.

"Can't fly," he said, his voice terse. When Ron looked questioning he shook his head tightly, then winced. "Scar hurts too much," he ground out; "don't trust myself on a broom. We can walk now anyway- it's not far. " Ron had suppressed the wave of anxiety he felt for his friend- he knew if he said anything to express his concern Harry would most likely, in his current state of mind, think he was being patronizing and resent him for it. All he said was "lead the way."

So they had struck off on foot with their broomsticks over their shoulders, each one immersed in his own dark thoughts.

The night had been pitch black when they began walking. Now the first faint traces of the coming dawn could be seen on the rim of the horizon; the palest silvery grey. In the dim and hazy light of predawn, Harry looked grimly at the sky and fingered his wand with one hand and a small jeweled dagger, an intricately wrought miniature of Gryffindor's sword that was a recent gift from Sirius, with the other. This is the last dawn, he thought, that will see a world with both Harry Potter and Lord Voldemort in it. I'm coming for you, you raping, murdering bastard, and only one of us will survive this day.

It was because he was already looking at the sky that he was able to make out clearly the shape that went hurtling low overhead at that moment, whereas all Ron saw, jerking his head up at Harry's startled cry, was a dark blur against the slightly less dark sky.

Ron looked from the speeding object, which, traveling in the same direction as they were walking, had already vanished over the crest of a nearby hill, to Harry, who stood stock still, staring after it; pale, open mouthed, and aghast. "Harry," he began, "what in the-"

But Harry was already running. Had he remembered the broomstick slung over his shoulder he would doubtless have mounted it and kicked off in pursuit, regardless of the pain in his scar or any attendant risk to himself, but caught in the grip of complete blind panic, he dropped it, dropped everything save the dagger and his wand which were thrust securely into the belt of his flying leathers, and ran as he had never run before. A moment later he heard Ron's feet pounding behind him, heard Ron gasp out "Harry- what-"

"Malfoy!" he cried, not slowing. "That was Malfoy- on a broomstick- with Hermione! Ron- he's taking her to HIM!"

An inarticulate cry of horror was wrenched from Ron, and both boys found another burst of panic-induced speed. As they crested the hill the broomstick had disappeared over, they saw their destination at last.

In the shadow of the hill crouched the ruin of a great manor house. Its stone façade was blackened as if from fire and its roof was open to the sky. There were no other buildings in sight, and the ruin looked long abandoned as though it had stood thus for decades, perhaps hundreds of years. A sinister aura seemed to radiate out from it; a cold, sick feeling that assailed Harry and Ron as they tore down the hillside, never slowing despite the chill that crept into their very bones.

Wards, Harry thought distractedly, no doubt intended to keep muggles at bay- maybe wizards too- but damned if they're going to work on me! Not when Hermione's life hangs in the balance- again!

There was no sign of the broomstick or its occupants anywhere.

This is the second time we've run to save her, thought Harry despairingly, please, please, God- let us not be too late this time too!

They approached the house from behind and raced around it, seeking an entrance as the windows they encountered were too high to reach from the ground. On the far side of it they finally approached a door with wide stone steps leading up to it. The door was easily the most solid looking aspect of the entire building; heavy oak banded with iron.

With a quick, sideways glance at one another as they took the steps two at a time, they leveled their wands in unison at the door. "ALOHOMORA!" they shouted in one voice, with such force that the door blasted backward off its hinges and shattered, taking a large chunk of wall with it.

Leaping over the debris scattered about, Harry and Ron skidded to a halt in the entrance hall, glancing about frantically for a sign of where to go next. It was at this point that Ron, catching a trace of movement out of the corner of his eye, whirled about to see that Wormtail had just entered the hall from a door on the right. His eyes were wide with shock at the sudden arrival of the two boys, but as Ron watched he raised his hand and it was steady, pointing a wand at Harry, who still had not seen him.

Ron did not miss a beat. "Avada Kedavra!" he cried, leveling his wand at Wormtail. A jet of green light shot from the end of it, hitting Wormtail squarely in the chest and hurling him back against the wall, where he slumped to the floor, dead.

Ron bent over, hands braced on his knees, panting, as the full realization of what he had just done hit him. He felt as though he might retch. His eyes were fixed on Wormtail's small, plump body; he was unable to tear them away until he felt Harry's hand gripping his arm and pulling him upright again.

"Holy shit, Harry," he gasped, eyes flying to his friend's face. "What have I-"

But Harry cut him off. "No time," he panted, "Hermione-!"

At that moment, both of their heads turned toward the door from which Wormtail had come as they heard a burst of high, cold laughter issue from it followed by a shout that they both recognized as Malfoy. Then a low, hissing voice spoke. Harry and Ron couldn't make out the words, but they recognized that voice; oh yes. The tone too was familiar; amused and taunting, just as it had been moments after its owner had left a ravaged Hermione for dead on the floor of a Hogwarts corridor.

Voldemort.

They were both running again without even being aware of doing so- through the door Wormtail had used, down a short corridor that terminated in another door which Harry, slightly ahead of Ron, kicked open. They found themselves in a huge, open room- close to the size of the Great Hall at Hogwarts- that was currently occupied by three people besides themselves. Stopping just inside the door, they surveyed the scene unfolding before them with horror.

On the far side of the room stood Voldemort, looking relaxed and amused in his voluminous black robes. His wand was in his right hand, but it dangled at his side. His left hand, however, was extended forward, fist clenched. His eyes flickered to Harry and Ron as they entered, and an expression of surprise crossed his face; but not of concern. Far from looking angry or fearful about the arrival of his nemesis, in fact, a twisted smile crossed his face at the sight of the Gryffindor boys. Then his eyes returned to the two figures in the center of the room; the two figures who held Harry and Ron's attention as well.

Draco stood there facing Voldemort, his back to the door, and to Harry and Ron. He had Hermione with him; her feet were on the floor, but her body was limp. Draco had caught her once again as she fell, so that from where Harry and Ron were standing it appeared, absurdly, as though they had been dancing- as though he had frozen in the act of dipping her.

He was murmuring to her, his voice low and intent, but she did not respond. Her eyes, Harry saw, seemed to be open and gazing upward, but they were vacant, expressionless. He could not understand Malfoy's words, nor did he feel that he needed to; his eyes told him everything he needed to know. Malfoy had brought Hermione here by broomstick, probably aware that he and Ron were on their way, hurtling past them in his haste to deliver Hermione to the enemy first. And there he stood, holding her limp form out, it looked to Harry, like an offering to the Dark Lord.

And then, as Harry watched, dismay turning to blind, all-encompassing rage, Malfoy hauled off and slapped Hermione hard across the face. Harry felt, quite distinctly, something snap inside of him. Plunging forward into the red mist that suddenly obscured his vision, he tore toward Malfoy, his heart pounding in his ears. He didn't see Hermione suddenly jerk back to awareness, reaching up and clutching Draco to steady herself. He didn't see Draco set her gently back on her feet, pausing to steady her before he turned to face Voldemort, hand reaching for his wand and death in his eyes. Harry took none of this in; the red mist was before him, all around him; even the pain in his scar now seemed distant and unimportant..reaching Malfoy was all that mattered, reaching Malfoy and making him pay.

And Draco, his attention focused completely first on Hermione and then on Voldemort, never realized that Harry was there.

Harry drew level with him, and, as he skidded to a stop beside him, reached out and grabbed Draco's shoulder with his left hand, spinning him roughly around to face him as his right hand went to his belt. Not a word was spoken by either of them as wide, startled pale blue eyes stared into narrowed, furious green ones for an instant that felt like a lifetime.

Then, as Hermione, who had been just as much caught off guard as Draco was, realized what was happening and screamed "NOOOOOO!", as Voldemort's face suddenly lit with understanding and split into a malicious grin, and as Ron raced toward him shouting, Harry plunged his dagger hilt-deep into Draco's chest.

Hermione stood with her hands clapped to her mouth, staring between Harry and Draco, aghast. This can't be happening, her mind screamed at her; I did not just see Harry stab Draco- this cannot be happening!

She remembered watching Draco gracefully mount his top-of-the-line broomstick, before climbing up behind him. Like Harry and Ron, he was attired in flying leathers, but unlike them his were certainly not filched. They had been purchased in one of the trendiest shops in Diagon Alley, and custom tailored to his physique. They were soft, supple black leather (as opposed to the scratched, battered brown that Harry and Ron wore), against which his white-blond hair stood out in stark contrast, and they were well charmed to keep their wearer warm in flight. She thought they probably cost as much as the broom itself. As for Hermione, she owned no flying leathers, nor did she have any inclination to steal any. She wore muggle jeans, a turtleneck and sweater- the warmest clothes she had been able to find while quietly and hastily riffling through her trunk, in terror of waking Lavender or Parvati- with a cloak thrown over them.

She remembered the long flight from Hogwarts with Draco, sitting behind him on his Firebolt, pressed close against him with her arms wrapped around his waist and her hands shoved into his pockets from behind for warmth. She remembered the cold she had felt through every inch of her body, and how she had willed the broomstick to go faster, just a little faster, not because of the chill or discomfort of the flight but our of fear for her friends' safety, in addition to her own; she had to reach Voldemort before Harry and Ron!

She remembered Draco's deft handling of the broom, with no doubt in her mind that he had gotten every ounce of power and speed out of it he possibly could; he hurtled them through the night, flying with an innate talent and ease that rivaled Harry's- after all, it was this natural ability in both boys that made them such perfectly matched opposing seekers.

She remembered finally cresting that last hill and seeing the manor house crouching forbiddingly below them, and Draco guiding the broomstick right through one of the gaping holes in the nearly nonexistent roof to land on the second floor. She remembered closing her eyes and gritting her teeth as the broomstick came in for a landing, thinking they were going too impossibly fast, thinking they were going to crash- and then they had stopped, so smoothly she hadn't realized it and kept her eyes shut until she felt Draco swing his leg over and dismount easily, and when she had opened them again he had been standing there, a small smile playing about his lips, with his hand extended gracefully to help her to the floor.

She remembered him asking her to wait there with the broom, not to expose herself to any further danger, to stay where she was while he faced Voldemort, and her flat and angry refusal. She had stalked ahead of him down the decrepit stairs, and when he had caught her from behind halfway down, gripping her shoulders and turning her, gently yet forcibly, to face him, she hadn't waited to hear what he had had to say. She had slapped him for the second time, hard across the face, and when he had released her, stepping back and looking wounded, she had spoken coldly. "I'm grateful to you for bringing me here," she said, "but this is my battle. Back the hell off, Malfoy, and go wait with the broom yourself!"

Turning, she had run the rest of the way down, pulling out her wand as she went. She was aware of him coming silently right behind her. In the downstairs hall she had turned instantly toward the sound of voices coming from a door to her left, had barreled down a short hallway and burst through the door at the end of it. She remembered that she had made it halfway across the room before stopping, gasping, with Draco still beside and slightly behind her, to face her enemy.

Voldemort, who had been deep in conversation with Wormtail under the large arching window at the far side of the room, turned toward her. His eyes swept over her, making her shudder, but she held her ground as a cruel smile spread across his face. "Leave us, Wormtail," he had commanded, and the short, round man had scuttled across the room for the door, closing it behind him with his silver hand as he had left.

She remembered that for a long moment, silence had reigned. Then, his face splitting into what was unmistakably a leer, Voldemort had hissed "back for more, are we?" And he had laughed. And now that the time had come for action, she found herself rooted to the spot, unable to move, and it was Draco beside her that gave a shout of outrage, leveled his wand at Voldemort and fired off a spell.

Hermione didn't hear what spell it was- the wind was rushing in her ears again, as it had just when Voldemort had kicked her after the rape, knocking the wind out of her, making the world spin. But whatever spell Draco used was ineffectual; Voldemort simply blocked it with a lazy flick of his wand, sending the jet of light that had issued from Draco's wandtip careening harmlessly into a wall.

"Is that the best you can do?" the Dark Lord hissed to Draco, "the son of my right-hand man? I expected better of you. I expected so much better of you, in fact, that I am appalled to see you here, challenging me, at all. You will have to die, of course. And all because you seem to have fallen under the spell of this mudblood wench. What a waste. Stupid boy, hasn't anyone told you-" and here his cold eyes flicked back to Hermione- "she's used goods."

At this, Draco made as if to leap forward bodily, but before he could do so, Voldemort extended his hand and clenched his fist, and Hermione felt a sick, dizzying pain throughout her body as the ground was yanked out from under her. She was unaware of falling or of Draco catching her, unaware of anything that passed until she suddenly found herself standing again, clutching Draco tightly for support, her cheek stinging- and then Harry was there- and then..and then..

This can't be true. I'm not seeing what I think I'm seeing. I can't be.

Harry and Draco stood as if frozen in place, their eyes still locked on one another. Then Draco, who had gone sheet white, slowly lowered his gaze to stare at the hilt of the dagger protruding from his chest, high on the right side. It had missed his heart by some distance, but had pierced his lung. He stared down at it, and the blood blossoming around it, then back up at Harry.

"Potter," he said, his voice blank with shock, and that one word encompassed everything- six years of bitter enmity culminating in this one bloody, horrendous act.

Moving very slowly, as if in a dream, Draco reached up, gripped the hilt of the dagger, and, clenching his jaw, yanked it from his body. He held it up before his eyes, scarlet with his blood, and actually seemed to be examining it. Recognizing it for what it was, a replica of Gryffindor's sword, his lips twisted into what may have been a mirthless smile- or may have been just a grimace of pain. "How fitting," he murmured, and then the dagger slipped through his fingers and fell to the floor with a clatter.

He swayed on his feet then- but remarkably, remained upright. A ghastly silence had descended on the room, as all eyes were locked on him. And then Voldemort began to laugh again.

"Lovely," he exclaimed. "This is just too perfect for words! Here you all came with the same goal in mind- to kill me, as if that could be done- and then you turn on each other instead. Bravo, Harry! You've just saved me an unpleasant bit of work. Though necessary, it would have given me no joy to kill Lucius's son. Let's have an encore, shall we? Would you care to save me the work of killing the other two as well?"

Harry simply stared back, his brilliantly green eyes wide and shocked. Then, slowly, comprehension dawned, and horror. "Malfoy-" he stammered, addressing Voldemort, "Malfoy..came here..to kill-?"

"Me, yes," Voldemort replied, his voice fraught with cold amusement. "And I can see by your expression that you are not going to oblige me by finishing the bloody work you have begun." He sighed theatrically. "I suppose it is up to me, after all, to deal with the little whore who has just deprived me of such a promising member of the Death Eater youth." His eyes once again rested on Hermione, who still stood with her hands over her mouth. "You will suffer before you die for the trouble you've caused me today," he hissed, and, finally raising his wand, pointed it at her.

"Crucio!" he cried.

After that, things happened very fast.

*****

Moving with astonishing speed and purpose considering that he had been stabbed a moment before, Draco threw himself in front of Hermione, catching the full force of the Cruciatus Curse that had been intended for her.

He grunted as it slammed into him, throwing him several feet backwards where he landed hard, flat on his back. It was a testament to his remarkable will power and self control that he neither screamed nor flailed as the pain ripped through him like a thousand knives; he simply curled tightly into a fetal position, clenched his jaw, bit straight through his lip, and endured in silence.

Fortunately, in the next instant Voldemort's attention was diverted as Harry, Ron and Hermione all yelled "Expelliarmus!" with one voice, training their wands on him. It didn't work; he was able to block all three spells with a casual wave of his wand- but in doing so his focus left Draco, and as soon as Voldemort's attention- and wand- were otherwise engaged, the curse lifted.

Draco lay still, drawing in great, ragged gulps of air for a long moment, nearly blinded by the pain in his chest as he did so; then, incredibly, he dragged himself slowly to his knees and began to crawl toward his wand, which lay a few feet away, where he had dropped it when the curse hit him.

I am NOT going down until this is over, he told himself grimly, though his head was spinning and large black starbursts were blossoming before his eyes. Bloody Voldemort- talking about me as if I were already dead- maybe I am, but I'm still going to take that bastard with me. Reaching the wand, he gripped it in one blood slick hand, then absently ran the other through his pale hair, leaving a bright red track. He gave his head a slight shake in an attempt to clear it, but this had the opposite effect; his vision went black and he pitched to one side, managing to catch himself on an elbow, but nearly losing his wand again in the process.

Struggling back to an upright position on his knees- he had realized his original plan of regaining his feet was simply not possible- Draco lifted his eyes and surveyed the battle going on around him through the fringe of now bloody hair that hung in his face, waiting for an opportunity to act.

Harry, Hermione and Ron had ranged themselves in a sort of arc around Voldemort; each standing about twelve feet back from him and six feet from each other. Naturally, Harry was in the middle, with Ron on his left and Hermione, who had regained her composure and was holding her own admirably, on his right. The three of them, displaying a sort of intense, non-verbal communication, bordering on telepathy, that was the result of six years of close friendship and countless other shared brushes with death, were taking turns firing off spell after spell at Voldemort, in rapid succession.

For his part, Voldemort was displaying none of the tension of his three opponents. He was standing at ease, deflecting each spell that came speeding toward him with casual flicks of his wand; sending them back toward their originators and causing Harry, Ron and Hermione to have to block their own spells. He gave no indication that he would be tiring any time soon- in fact, he rather seemed to be enjoying himself.

Time dragged slowly by, and as he struggled against the increasingly powerful waves of pain and dizziness that were washing over him, Draco was aware that the battle was heating up. Spells were flying fast and furious now, and even Voldemort's patience with the exercise appeared to be wearing thin.

Suddenly, as Draco watched, Harry inclined his head ever so slightly toward Ron and a brief yet intensely meaningful look passed between them. Then, without so much as speaking a word, Ron began to back away slowly, step by step, towards where Draco knelt. He still kept his eyes fixed on Voldemort, and still fired off and deflected spells every couple of seconds, but he continued to walk steadily and deliberately backwards until he was standing beside Draco.

Draco raised his eyes, blinked hard, wondering if he was hallucinating, then stared up in bewilderment at Ron, who was still standing there, apparently quite real. But why in the Hell-? As he watched, Ron shot off one final spell, then dropped quickly and fluidly into a crouch beside him. Keeping his eyes still locked on Voldemort, whose attention was now engaged wholly by Harry and Hermione, Ron inclined his head toward Draco and muttered, "how you holding up, Malfoy?"

Draco was utterly taken aback. Under these circumstances, an inquiry into his welfare was the very last thing he ever would have thought to expect. Never, he thought, Never will I understand what makes these bloody Gryffindors tick.

He glanced over at Ron, whose attention had finally left Voldemort and who was now looking at him (with an expression of- is that concern? Impossible- I must be mistaken..), then down at himself, at his clothes that were now drenched in blood, and then, with all the cool insolence he could muster, he flicked his eyes back up to Ron's face. His expression as much as said, what are you, stupid? When he spoke, he was trying for his customary nonchalant drawl; unfortunately, what he got instead was a painful grunt.

"Been...better. Weasley. What's it to you?"

Ron rolled his eyes. Did I honestly expect any different? he asked himself in annoyance, before recalling the fact that, even after six years of animosity, Malfoy had proven himself an ally here today, and now this ally was badly wounded. Badly wounded, yet showing an unbelievable endurance that had to be respected. "It's just that you look like Hell, Malfoy-" he said, but his tone was gentle. "-and I wouldn't trade places with you right now, even if you ARE worth a hundred million galleons. So- I guess what I'm trying to say is- I'm worried about you."

Draco snorted, and immediately regretted it. The snort caused more pain than it was worth. Especially since Ron ignored it completely.

"Anyway," Ron said, as though he hadn't just been rudely interrupted, "Harry wants me to stay with you now. He and Hermione are going to finish this. It's their right- they're the ones with the strongest claim to vengeance. Harry for his family and Hermione for- well, for herself. And- why are you looking at me like that?"

Draco was staring hard at Ron. "What do mean, Potter wants you to stay with me?" he demanded. "I was watching you both- he never said a word. Just looked at you...what are you, bloody mind readers?"

Ron shook his head. His expression said, I wouldn't expect you to understand. "Not mind readers," he replied; "best friends."

He was right- Draco didn't understand. He tried to, but it eluded him. The concept of a friendship so deep, so strong, so intuitive that body language and eyes could be read easily and accurately and words were practically superfluous, was incomprehensible to Draco. Until now, he had had no idea that such a bond could even exist between two people, much less two teenage boys. Certainly he had never experienced anything like it. With Crabbe and Goyle- if those two could even be truthfully called friends- every specific detail of what he wanted them to know or to do had to be carefully spelled out, preferably in monosyllabic words. The sort of easy communication displayed by Potter and Weasley was completely alien to Draco, and as with all things alien, his natural response was disdain- and yet, before he could control it, he felt a brief, but intense, pang of envy. Of course, he denied it to himself, immediately and vehemently. So strong, in fact, was his denial that he almost believed it..almost.

His reverie was abruptly cut short, however, as he heard Potter's voice ring out loud and clear- "Let's end this, Voldemort!"

"With pleasure," came the hissing response. The battle was reaching a crescendo.

Now Voldemort began hurling taunts, as well as spells.

"Don't worry, Harry," he said in a confidential tone, "I'll make your death swift. It's the least I can do to repay you for coming all this way in order to offer yourself to me like a lamb to the slaughter. I can't say I promise the same mercy for the girl, though-" his scarlet eyes raked over Hermione again- "although she's proven to be entirely more trouble than she was worth, still I can't help remembering that she was a spectacular lay. Yes, I think I'll keep her around for a while, if you catch my meaning, and when she does die-" he paused and licked his lips lewdly with his serpentine tongue- "she will die screaming."

Hermione blanched, and tears sprang to her eyes, but she kept her composure. Taking a deep, if somewhat shaky, breath, she stood taller than before and kept flinging spells at her tormenter with lightning speed.

Harry was literally growling; an animalistic sound of raw emotion deep in his throat.

Where he crouched on the floor, Ron tensed as if to spring forward. He had his fists clenched and he was gripping his wand so tightly that each one of the myriad freckles on his hands stood out in angry contrast against his pale skin.

As for Draco, all he felt was a weary, miserable sort of disgust with his family and with himself, for ever having allied themselves with this monster. "Don't let him bait you, Potter," he called out hoarsely, squeezing his eyes tightly shut against the pain this caused. "He wants you to lose your cool!"

The exertion of yelling caused him to collapse sideways again, and he had just a split second in which to think; bugger me, if I hit the floor now there's no way I can get up again, and then he felt Ron catch and steady him, helping him to right himself while murmuring, "Whoa, Malfoy- Jesus Christ!"

"Ugh...thanks, Weasley," he whispered, before he even had a chance to remember that one of the Malfoy family cardinal rules was, Thou Shalt Never Thank Anyone.

Ron was staring at him and that expression- the one that looked suspiciously like concern- was stronger now. "Maybe you SHOULD lie down, Malfoy," he began, but Draco cut him off.

"No. Have to stay alert...me and you both. Hermione and Potter...will need us in a minute."

"I told you, Malfoy," Ron replied, "They don't want our help. Harry and Hermione are going to finish this. It's their right."

"You're forgetting who I am, Weasley. I'm privy to a lot of information about...You-Know-Who. Take it from me...one person alone can't kill him, even Potter. Two...maybe, but I rather think not. Unless everything I've been told is wrong...you and I will be called on before this is over. They can try to exact their vengeance on their own...but I think necessity will compel us to help them in the end."

Hermione risked a sidelong glance at Harry, standing on her left. The set, determined expression on his face mirrored her own, though of course she could not know that. He was standing, feet apart, cloak thrown back over his shoulders, firing and deflecting spells at lightning speed. A fine sheen of sweat coated his face, and his hair, which usually stood straight up despite the most valiant efforts to tame it, hung damply over his forehead, all but obscuring his narrowed eyes.

Eyes that were blazing with green fire in this, the moment of his destiny.

She wanted desperately to look over at Draco, but she fought down the urge; even the most fleeting glance would require her to turn her head too far. She couldn't afford to look away from Voldemort for even an instant- the risk was too great.

But the barely controlled panic in Ron's voice when she had heard him exclaim "Whoa, Malfoy- Jesus Christ!" a moment ago had struck terror in her heart, and more than anything she wanted to know what the hell was going on back there where the two boys crouched on the floor, just out of her line of vision.

Tears threatened to overflow her eyes as her mind replayed again and again the image of that dagger being plunged into Draco's chest. She blinked them back fiercely; she could not afford blurry vision right now. It could get her killed. So with a mighty effort she pushed Draco from her mind and focused all her attention on Voldemort, while remaining keenly aware of Harry beside her. The time was quickly approaching, she knew instinctually, when Harry would initiate the last phase of the battle.

As if on cue, she became aware of Harry's green gaze on her. She glanced to her left once again, and their eyes met for a fraction of a second; a volume of information was exchanged between the two of them in that brief look. Harry was telling her, without words, that he was ready to lock wands with Voldemort. That meant that she had to temporarily remove herself from the fray.

She took a deep, calming breath, then fired off one final spell. As soon as the words left her lips, she dropped into a crouch so that when Voldemort deflected the spell back at her, it flew harmlessly over her head. Then, before Voldemort could react to this unexpected turn of events, she threw herself behind Harry. She was now out of the battle, and shielded from harm by Harry's body.

This so surprised Voldemort that he stopped altogether for a moment, staring from Harry to Hermione behind him, to Ron to Draco and back to Harry again, as if just realizing that he was down to only one active combatant.

Hermione took advantage of this momentary lull, as Harry and Voldemort stared each other down, to look over at Draco and Ron. Draco was on his knees, leaning forward with his weight supported on his right hand, which was braced on the floor. He held his wand tightly in his left hand, which she saw was scarlet with blood. His head was hanging exhaustedly, and his blood streaked hair fell forward, hiding his face from view. Her stomach flipped over and her heart sank, seeing him like that. Beside him crouched Ron, looking oddly protective of this boy he'd hated for so many years, as though he expected Draco to keel over at any second and was ready to catch him should it come to that.

Ron met her eyes first. The two of them shared a solemn look, then Ron raised his right hand, which held his wand, and thumped his fist against his heart. He mouthed the words, Be Careful. And then, I Love You.

At that moment Draco raised his head and her eyes left Ron's and locked on his. He shot her the faintest ghost of a smile and then, unbelievably, extended his left hand toward her and, while still holding his wand, gave her what was unmistakably a "thumbs up" gesture.

Before she could think of a response, her attention was diverted by Harry, as he said to Voldemort in a deathly calm voice, "Are you ready to finish this? No more taunts, no more games- let's end this now!"

Voldemort's only answer was a furious hiss. Hermione felt a wave of cold, sick déjà vu wash over her; it was the same sound he had made when she had spat in his face, just before he'd slammed her head into the wall.

In the next instant, two voices rang out; one shrill and enraged, the other deep and composed. "AVADA KEDAVRA!" Shouted Harry and Voldemort, wands leveled at each other with deadly intent. And as had happened once years before, the two jets of light that emanated from the opposing wands met between them, forming a bridge of green light that quickly turned to gold. Then, as Hermione watched in amazement, Harry's feet left the floor.

"Hermione, quick," Harry ground out from between clenched teeth- she saw that his whole body was trembling and, as she watched, he brought up his left hand to steady his right, which was shaking dangerously as he fought to maintain the bridge of light- "before our wands isolate us, do it- do it NOW!"

Both combatants were at least two feet off the floor when Hermione stepped out from behind Harry and leveled her wand at Voldemort's chest. His red eyes flicked from Harry to her, and she saw in them the sudden realization that he could not defend himself from her because Harry would not release him from their wandlock. She braced herself.

"Avada Kedavra!" she cried.

Green light shot from her wand and slammed into Voldemort's chest with incredible force. The jolt broke the bridge of light that connected him to Harry, and they both fell back to the floor. Harry managed to land on his feet and steady himself..and, to Hermione's horror, so did Voldemort. She kept her wand trained on him, and pulses of green light emanated from it, hitting him squarely in the chest time and again, yet he wasn't dead. He wasn't even knocked down.

In fact, he threw back his head and laughed. And she felt his high, cold laugh seep under her skin and chill her right down to the bone. This wasn't right. This wasn't right at all. Then he pointed his wand at her.

Before she could succumb completely to the panic that suddenly threatened to overwhelm her, she heard Harry's voice calm in her ear. "It's okay- I expected this. We'll do it together." He leveled his wand at Voldemort again and said "Avada Kedavra," in a quiet, intense voice.

A jet of green light shot from his wand and hit Voldemort in the midsection, abruptly ending his laughter and causing him to stumble back a step and- to Hermione's immense relief- drop his wand to the floor. Still, though, he did not fall. He merely stood there in a halo of pulsing green light, fists clenched, glaring at them, with a grin on his face both malicious and triumphant. "You...cannot...kill...me," he hissed, "pathetic children."

"Harry!" Hermione cried frantically, "what are we going to DO?"

*****

Draco heard the desperation in Hermione's voice and knew the time had come to act. "Weasley," he gasped, "we have to get up. I need-" God, but this was hard to say- "I need your help."

Without a word, Ron took hold of Draco's arm and draped it over his shoulder, then staggered to his feet, dragging Draco up with him. Draco grunted in pain as the room seemed to tilt dangerously and his vision darkened again- but he fought his way back to full consciousness, muttering to Ron, "Do it- curse him! I- I just need- a minute...to gather my strength."

Ron severely doubted that Draco could gather his strength within a minute's time, or at all for that matter, but he did as the Slytherin instructed; leveled his wand at Voldemort and bellowed, "Avada Kedavra!"

Draco's eyes widened marginally when he saw where Ron's jet of light connected with Voldemort, and once again a ghost of a smile flitted across his face. Ron had aimed his wand squarely at Voldemort's groin. I'll be damned, Draco thought; I have to give the boy some credit- never thought he had it in him.

As for Voldemort, he staggered backward yet again under this new attack, but still remained on his feet. His whole body now glowed intensely green and he no longer laughed, no longer grinned, no longer taunted. He no longer looked triumphant. Although he had long ago taken precautions against death, he was not truly immortal. He could only survive the onslaught of so many killing curses at once. He knew that one more blow would finish him, and he knew that Draco, whose family was, after all, among his trusted inner circle and therefore knew his weaknesses (the better to protect and serve him), would know this too. And so it was to Draco that the Dark Lord addressed his last words.

"My LOYAL followers will tear you limb from limb, traitor," he screamed, as Draco slowly raised his wand.

"You forget, my Lord," said Draco, his voice pitched low and dripping with sarcasm, "I'm not going to be around long enough for that to happen."

Voldemort's scarlet eyes flashed. "That's right...you're already dead, aren't you- murdered by those you betrayed me for!"

Draco's eyes went to Hermione. "It's worth it," he said flatly. Then, as Voldemort gave a barely human howl of rage and defiance, he braced himself against Ron and cried, "Avada Kedavra!" with all the force he could muster.

Voldemort's howl became a shriek; briefly, the four teens had a glimpse of him standing in the midst of a pulsating green cage of light, his head thrown back and face contorted with outrage at the realization that his life was at an end and he had been bested by four children; a boy who had plagued him since infancy by his very existence, the youngest son of a pureblood family who had lacked the "pride" to join his ranks, a mudblood bitch he had thought he'd broken beyond repair, and one of his own best and brightest young followers turned traitor on him.

Then the Dark Lord collapsed in a flash of brilliant light that was accompanied by a shockwave which sent Harry and Hermione, Ron and Draco sprawling to the floor.

For a long moment, all was silent and still.

Then, slowly, Harry, Ron and Hermione picked themselves up.

Draco did not.

*****

As Harry advanced warily toward Voldemort's prone form, wand in hand, Hermione flew to where Draco lay sprawled on the floor with Ron bending over him. Even now Draco managed to look nonchalant- almost comfortable, as if he had simply decided to lie down in this particular spot and have a bit of a breather. It wasn't until one got close that his shallow, ragged breathing and strained expression told a different story- that and the blood. The vast quantity of blood.

Throwing herself down beside Ron, Hermione reached out both hands and caressed Draco's face. "No," she murmured; "no, no, no." She leaned close over him. "Draco?" she whispered. He was staring fixedly up at the ceiling, his remarkable, pale eyes distant; unfocused. "Draco," she said more loudly, patting his cheek, "come back. Come on- please. Come back to me." As his eyes slowly focused on her, she smiled through the tears that were beginning to flow. "That's it," she said, "come on now, don't make me slap you again."

Draco smiled briefly at this allusion, and it was a real smile- one that reached his eyes; so rare for him. But it passed quickly, lost in a grimace of pain as he tried to lever himself up on his elbows. God, how he wanted to sit up- he couldn't stand the thought of looking weak in front of Hermione, not to mention Weasley and that bloody bastard Potter- but his body just-wouldn't-obey him, damn it all to hell.

Hermione, seeing something of this struggle in his eyes, moved around behind his head. She threaded her arms under his, locked her hands about his chest, and pulled him backward and up so that he was in a sitting position, his body supported by her own, his head resting back on her chest. "Draco," she said softly, bending and kissing him on top of his fair head, "stay with me now...stay..." He didn't reply. She began stroking one hand through his tangled, bloody hair, and the other found his hand- his left hand, his wand hand, and squeezed. He squeezed back weakly.

Her eyes met Ron's over Draco's head and they shared a bleak, frightened look- they both knew this wasn't good. Ron looked as though he was about to speak, but at that moment Harry's voice came to them from across the room; "He's dead."

Ron and Hermione both turned to look at Harry where he stood over Voldemort- Draco didn't. His eyes had drifted shut. "Dead," Harry said again, flatly, "the bastard's finally dead." He turned and took a few steps toward where his friends huddled on the floor, but then abruptly turned back, his cloak billowing behind him, and quickly re-crossed the distance to where the fallen Dark Lord lay. Without preamble he kicked the body brutally, twice; once in the face and once in the groin, then stood over it breathing hard, face flushed, fists clenched, still trembling with rage and adrenaline.

"Burn in hell," he ground out through clenched teeth, and spat on the body. Then, seizing Voldemort's wand from where it lay beside him, he snapped it with savage force over his knee and hurled the pieces at the wall with an inarticulate cry of rage.

Having finally dispelled his fury, Harry turned his back once and for all on Voldemort, the man responsible for wreaking so much havoc on his young life, and the lives of those around him. He stood still for a moment as his breathing slowly returned to normal, seeming unsure of what to do next. His hands unclenched and he ran them quickly through his unruly black hair, then shook his head and settled his gaze once again on the three people across the room.

He walked toward them slowly- he still seemed to be somewhat in a daze. But when he got to a distance of a few yards, his eyes widened as though he really seemed to see Draco for the first time- really seemed to see and understand the blood- and he broke into a run.

Falling to his knees next to Draco, Harry reached out as if to grip his shoulder, but then pulled his hand back, unsure. "Malfoy...?" He said hesitantly. Draco, eyes still shut, did not respond.

Harry raised his eyes to Hermione's overflowing ones. "Shit," he said softly; "oh shit." Hermione stifled a sob, but didn't speak.

Dropping his gaze back to Draco, Harry was surprised to see ice blue eyes now open and regarding him steadily and coolly. "Malfoy," he said again, in a strangled sort of voice.

"Hey...Potter," Draco said, and winced. Talking hurt. Hell, breathing hurt.

"Jesus Christ, Malfoy, I'm sorry," Harry said hoarsely. "I thought- aww shit, I thought-"

"I bloody well know what you thought," Draco cut him off, then added a word that sounded suspiciously like "wanker." They both lapsed into silence for a moment.

Surprisingly, it was Draco who spoke next. "Listen- Potter..s'all right," he muttered thickly. "If our roles were reversed...I'd've done th'same. Anyway-" he paused and grimaced- "s'better this way. What do I have- ungh- to go back to? Word gets out about this...parents'll disown me...Slytherins hate me...Death Eaters...hunt me down. All that shit...I don't need."

Abruptly, he turned his head to the side and, to everyone's horror, spat a large quantity of blood on the floor. He regarded it for a moment with a sort of detached interest before turning back to Harry. Hermione made a small, miserable sound and her arms tightened about him convulsively. She felt him squeeze her hand again.

"Just...uhm...take care of Granger, okay?" he said, his voice now barely more than a whisper. "And tell my father..." Here he paused. His eyes drifted shut again as he thought about his last message to his family. He had been going to ask Potter to tell his father he died in Voldemort's service, defending him to the last, so as to uphold the family honor. And yet... When his eyes opened again, they were blazing with a fierce light of defiance. "Tell him I'll see him in hell."

Potter's face began to waver in front of him, as though he were looking up from underwater. He blinked and his eyes narrowed, trying to keep Potter in focus, but it was a losing battle. He finally submitted to the exhaustion that was overwhelming him and allowed his eyes to close, seemingly of their own accord. Instantly a peaceful feeling washed over him; probably, he thought wryly, as a result of no longer forcing himself to stare up at Potter's ugly mug.

The pain that had been white-hot in his chest began to fade, replaced by a dark, floaty sort of feeling. He settled back more deeply against Hermione- he could feel her chest rising and falling, could feel the steady beat of her heart in her breast beneath his head. A bittersweet smile touched the corners of his mouth as he imagined all the lovely things he'd never get to do to that breast.

The panicky voices of the three Gryffindors had faded to a steady, low background noise- he could no longer understand what they were saying, nor did he want to. It was enough to hear the soothing murmur of Hermione's voice above his head; he didn't need to know her words. Nothing she was saying to Potter or Weasley could be as important, anyway, as the sound of her heart beating, so loud in his ears. Just so long as that heart kept beating strong, he thought drowsily, as the darkness settled more heavily around him, what did it really matter that his own was slowing down? No big deal, really..a small price to pay for the privilege of lying here enclosed in her arms, knowing she was out of danger, safe and well- sad, maybe, but that would pass- he sincerely doubted that anyone, even Hermione, would mourn him for long.

With a last, monumental effort to squeeze her hand, he gave himself over the darkness, and felt himself begin to drift away.....

Having made a conscious decision to let the darkness carry him away, Draco was rather less than thrilled to find himself being pulled upward once again, toward light, toward life, toward PAIN, by a pair of hands gripping his shoulders tightly and a voice talking urgently, incessantly in his ear- not Hermione's soft, lilting voice either, but that voice that grated on him above all others, had done so for six long years now- Potter.

Miserable bastard stabbed me, he thought foggily, and even now he won't let me have any peace!

Then, on top of everything, he felt Hermione withdraw her hand from his. A desperate, aching sense of loss accompanied this realization. He tried to find her hand again, but in the next instant something cold and hard was being pressed into his palm, his fingers being forcibly wrapped around it. As he gripped it, he recognized what it was without needing to open his eyes; his wand. And that voice- that unrelenting voice-

"Malfoy...Malfoy. MALFOY."

"Potter. What. Hell. You want. Now." He gasped, reluctantly forcing his eyes open.

The blur of white face, green eyes and black hair that hovered over him spoke again, loudly, enunciating slowly and clearly as though speaking to a small and not overly bright child. "Malfoy. Summon. Your. Broom."

It took a long time for Draco to process the words, then to make the connection between the words and the fact that he was now holding his wand, and finally to understand what it was that Potter intended him to do. Only- he couldn't imagine-

"Why...?"

"Because Dumbledore can fix this," came Harry's voice impatiently. "He saved Hermione- he can save you! But we need to get you back to school, and for that we need your broom. So Malfoy. Summon. Your. Broom."

"Oh," Draco whispered as he thought this over, and then; "Fuck off, Potter." He heard incoherent spluttering from above.

When Harry actually spoke again, he sounded incredulous. "What the hell are you saying, Malfoy- that you'd rather we leave you here to DIE?"

Draco sighed, though doing so hurt. "I guess you missed the part where I told you that if I go back, my life will be worth exactly shit. So to answer your question; yes, Potter..that's exactly what I'm saying."

"Look, Malfoy- that's just not going to happen. For the last time, summon your everloving broom. NOW!"

"You want the damn thing so bad, Potter- summon it yourself."

"I tried!" Harry ground out in exasperation. "So did Ron. Nothing happened. Apparently you have it charmed so that it won't respond to anyone but YOU!"

"Oh..oh yeah. Forgot about that," Draco mumbled. "Well...it is a Firebolt, after all. Anti-theft precaution. Can't have it answering...to just any riff-raff." He allowed his lip to twitch into the faintest shadow of his trademark smirk. "Oh well, Potter...what can you do."

More murmuring from above. Then he felt Hermione shift and heard her say, "you take him, Harry- I know where the broom is. I'll go get it."

"No...NO," Draco said, unsure which alarmed him more; the thought of being held- actually held by Potter, or the fact that... "There's another charm on the broom. I have to be the first to touch it- it'll Stupefy anyone else." With some satisfaction, he heard Potter curse under his breath. "It's quite hopeless, you see," he added, "...so if you don't mind...give it up and let me get back to the business of dying." He let his eyes fall shut once more.

But Hermione shifted again, preparing to stand. "I'll just take Ron with me then, and he can Ennervate me again," she said, unfazed. "We ARE taking you back, Draco- you can't win against all of us."

"Oh, damn it all to hell," Draco muttered. Gritting his teeth, he managed to raise his hand a few inches into the air, pointing his wand toward the ceiling. "Accio Firebolt," he whispered, without bothering to open his eyes. A second later the broomstick soared into the room. Dropping his left hand, he raised his right and caught it, steadying it so that it hung in the air above him. He let his hand fall back to his side, exhausted. "There...it's safe to touch now. You bloody well win."

He was distantly surprised to feel hot tears pricking at the backs of his eyes. Mingled frustration and pain; that awful, searing pain in his chest, that had begun to fade before, but came back full force when Potter had brought him back around. He couldn't get a deep breath anymore- could hardly get anything that passed for a breath at all, in fact- his mouth was full of the coppery taste of blood, and he knew it didn't all come from his bitten lip- and above all, he was just so tired- he wanted nothing more than to sleep, and never wake up. But now he was going to be loaded onto his broom and taken back, against his will, to a life he no longer wanted, and he was helpless to do anything about it.

Unexpectedly, a despairing sob ripped through him, and with it came a blinding flash of white-hot agony that originated in his chest but seemed to spread instantaneously throughout his entire body, leaving no extremity untouched. It was too much. He had just time to think furiously at himself, Malfoys don't CRY! before he finally and completely went spinning away into unconsciousness.

*****

Ron stood slowly. "I'm going to go outside and summon our brooms," he said to Harry. "I'll be back in a few minutes." Harry, remembering how they had dropped their broomsticks on the other side of the hill in their panic upon seeing Draco and Hermione rocket by overhead, nodded.

Passing back through the entrance Hall, Ron gave Wormtail's body a wide berth, pausing for only a second to stare down at it, his face contorted with disgust. As he turned his back on the corpse and picked his way carefully over the scattered debris and out through the destroyed front door, he wondered briefly whether he would go to Azkaban for what he had done. He didn't think so, considering the circumstances, but..he HAD used the worst of the unforgivable curses, so who could say for sure?

He decided there was no use dwelling on it at the moment. What would happen would happen, and if he did go to Azkaban, he thought defiantly, it would be worth it. There was not a doubt in his mind that under the same circumstances, he would do it again.

Coming out of the sinister ruined building into the fresh air and sunlight, Ron breathed deeply. Perhaps a bit too deeply, as a wave of light- headedness rushed suddenly over him, causing him to sit down heavily on the stone steps, shaking with reaction to all that had happened over the last few hours and blinking upward as the world spun around him.

Blue skies, smiling at me, he thought giddily, staring up, nothing but blue skies do I see..and he laughed, a hollow sound tinged with despair; a sound utterly out of character for the normally laid-back, happy-go-lucky Ron Weasley. Sitting there alone on the steps, leaning back on his elbows, gazing skyward, he laughed until he cried. And then he just cried.

He cried bitterly for the loss of innocence. He cried for Hermione who had been raped against a wall, right before his eyes. He cried for Malfoy, who after all the years of hostility had suddenly decided to throw in his lot with them- and was now bleeding to death on the floor for his trouble. He cried for Harry and for himself, who were both murderers now; him of Wormtail and Harry of Malfoy- because he just didn't see how Malfoy could live through this. (He did not, of course, consider Voldemort's death murder- he thought it more akin to the slaying of some monstrous beast of yore.) He cried because even though Voldemort was dead and the entire wizarding world would soon be celebrating, nothing could ever be the same again for him and his friends- never.

He squeezed his eyes shut in an attempt to block out the light- the light of a beautiful day that was so at odds with his feeling that nothing would ever be right with the world again. Pulling out his wand and raising his right hand, he envisioned the two broomsticks lying where he and Harry had dropped them on the other side of the hill. When he had them firmly in his mind, he whispered "Accio," waving his wand listlessly in their general direction. Satisfied that the brooms were now on their way to him, he dropped his hand back to his side. All that remained now was to wait for them to arrive, and try to put himself back together before returning to face his friends.

Grimacing, he dragged the back of his left hand hard across his puffy eyes, then shook his head once, sharply, to clear it. A whickering sound in the air overhead heralded the arrival of the broomsticks, and when he opened his eyes again they were there, hovering above him. Beyond them, he was surprised to see that the horizon was beginning to be tinged pink and orange. Good Lord, he thought, wasn't it just morning? But unless his eyes were deceiving him, dusk was near- the battle had raged all day.

He stood up then and grasped the brooms, one in each hand, and headed wearily back inside.

Stopping just inside the doorway of the room where the confrontation with Voldemort had taken place, Ron gazed at the scene before him.

Hermione still sat on the floor behind Draco, one arm wrapped around him protectively and the other holding his hand as he slumped, now deeply unconscious, against her chest. Harry though; it was Harry who caught Ron's attention. He had moved to kneel behind Hermione and she was now leaning back against his chest just as Draco was supported by hers. He was murmuring something to her, and absently stroking her braided hair.

It was totally innocent. Hermione had to be exhausted, Ron knew, and was probably on the verge of collapse from supporting Malfoy's dead weight, so Harry had given her a shoulder to lean on- literally. But in his mind's eye, Ron saw clearly Harry's face when he had asked him if he loved Hermione too- that fleeting expression he had caught just a glimpse of before Harry had dropped his face into his hands- that expression that had said Yes, God help me, a thousand times yes.

Harry, he thought sadly, my best friend. I love you like a brother, like my own flesh and blood. I've just killed a man to defend you and I'd do it again in a heartbeat. I'd do almost anything for you, but this I will not do- I will not give her up without a fight.

He started across the room then, and Harry, hearing his footsteps, looked up and gave him a smile that looked as bone tired as Ron felt. He smiled back weakly before returning his attention to Hermione. A good long look at her caused him to stop suddenly in his tracks, a cold iron band seeming to clamp down around his heart. She was neither looking at him nor smiling; her eyes were closed and they looked sunken, ringed with dark circles of fatigue. She was not moving and she looked as bad as she ever had during her eight days in the infirmary. He felt his heart begin to race with fear. Surely nothing could be wrong with her- surely Harry would know- would have called him in from outside, would not be smiling, even that weary half-smile, if something was wrong..nevertheless, the fear persisted and his fingers, suddenly nerveless and numb, let the broomsticks slip through them and clatter to the floor.

Instantly Hermione's eyes flew wide, startled, and Ron felt an overwhelming rush of relief coupled with guilt for frightening her out of what was, apparently, nothing more than a desperately needed catnap. Not that she would have been able to sleep any longer anyway- it was time to get Malfoy up and onto a broom, and then all of them needed to get back to school posthaste. Though at the moment nothing seemed more appealing to Ron than lying down on the floor beside his best friend and the girl he loved and sleeping for days.

Pushing that thought from his mind, he met Hermione's eyes and gave her the same weak smile he had given Harry. "Sorry to startle you," he said, glancing down at the broomsticks. "I just...lost my grip. Tired, I guess."

"Trust me, I understand," she replied.

As Ron bent to retrieve the brooms, Harry disengaged himself from Hermione and stood up. He held out a hand to Ron as a quick look of perfect understanding, identical to the one Draco had witnessed and pondered over earlier, passed between them. Ron tossed him his Firebolt without a word.

Harry held his broom steady beside Draco's, which still hung in the air. After murmuring a word to it, he removed his hand and his broom, like Draco's, hovered obediently. Taking a step back, he pointed his wand at the two Firebolts. Shining silver cords shot out of the wandtip and wound themselves tightly about the broomsticks from end to end, binding them securely together. Satisfied with his handiwork, he turned to face Ron and Hermione.

"Time is of the essence now and the two Firebolts ought to get me and Malfoy back to Hogwarts pretty quickly. Will you two be all right coming back together on the last broom?" Ron and Hermione both responded that they would. "Okay- help me get Malfoy up, then, Ron, alright?"

Harry moved around to crouch in front of Draco, Ron standing behind him. This time he did not hesitate to reach out and grip Draco's shoulder. "Malfoy," he said, his voice soft but intense. "Malfoy- can you hear me at all?" There was no response.

"Shit," Harry swore under his breath; "shit, this is bad." He shook his head.

Looking down at his friend crouching there beside the blood soaked Slytherin, Ron could almost hear the one guilt ravaged thought that he knew was repeating again and again in Harry's mind; I did this- I did this- I did this.

"Harry," he said quietly, "you didn't know-"

"No excuse," Harry cut him off, his voice tight as if to hold back tears. "There's no excuse for what I did, Ron- none." He sighed; a deep, shuddery sound, then leaning forward, slipped his arm beneath Draco's. "Come get his other side," he said. Hermione withdrew her arms from Draco as Ron and Harry both got a firm grip, then rocked back on their heels, pulling him forward, and finally both stood up, bringing him with them. Draco's silver head fell forward onto Harry's shoulder and as it did so a small pained sound, halfway between a groan and a whimper, escaped the blond boy's throat.

"Ron, take him while I mount the brooms," Harry grunted, "then give him back to me." He shifted Draco to Ron and called his broomstick which, together with Draco's, flew smoothly to place itself between his legs.

He positioned himself toward the rear of the broomsticks, then with Ron's help settled Draco in front of him so that the unconscious boy was leaning back against his chest, just as he had been leaning on Hermione on the floor. Harry wound his arms tightly about him from behind, holding him steady.

Hermione now approached the broomsticks. Reaching out to Harry, she gently cupped his cheek in her hand. "Don't blame yourself, Harry," she said. "If anyone is to blame for this, it's me. He was determined to come after Voldemort, but if I hadn't made him bring me, you never would have thought- " she trailed off and shook her head sadly. Harry began to protest, but she swiftly moved her hand from his cheek and pressed it to his mouth, quelling him. Her eyes shifted to Draco and she lowered her hand from Harry's face and ran it tenderly through Draco's tangled hair, pushing it back out of his closed eyes. "This is all my doing," she said in a choked voice. Leaning forward, she whispered "Draco, hold on- please hold on," and then kissed him softly on his bloodied lips.

She stepped back, and again raised her eyes to Harry's. "I know you can fly like the wind," she said; "please don't let him die." Raising her wand, she pointed it at the large arched window at the end of the room. The glass was long gone, but the window had been leaded and the leading still remained; diamond shaped bars criss-crossing the open space. At a word from Hermione a jet of white light shot from her wand and slammed into the very center of the leading. From there, the light jetted out instantaneously, following the diamond pattern to every corner of the window until the whole thing shone blindingly bright and then exploded silently outward, leaving nothing within the window frame but some fine white dust drifting slowly down to the floor. There was now ample room for Harry to maneuver the brooms out to the open air beyond.

Lifting his feet from the floor, Harry gripped the two Firebolts tightly with his knees. The broomsticks rose slowly several inches into the air, and Harry turned them, still controlling them with his legs alone, toward the gaping window. Then, without a backward glance, he shot through the room and out the window as a blur of color and speed, and was gone.

Hermione sighed and turned back from the window to face Ron..and the expression she saw on his face caused her to raise her hand to her mouth in alarm and exclaim, "Oh my God, Ron- what's WRONG?!?"

The instant that Hermione's lips had touched Draco's, Ron felt as if he had taken a bludger to the gut. All the air seemed to be sucked out of the room, and it was all he could do to remain upright. His vision narrowed to a dark tunnel at the end of which he could see, seemingly at a great distance and yet with perfect, startling clarity, his beloved Hermione kissing Malfoy- not on the cheek or the forehead as a friend might, but on the mouth- a deeply intimate gesture.

My God, he thought, what have I missed? How blind have I been?

And then everything fell into place.

Hermione's absences many nights a week over the past several months- she said she was in the library, but was she? Was she really?

Malfoy's desperate attempts to wake her from unconsciousness as Ron had held her on the corridor floor after the rape.

Malfoy's face thrust into his own after Snape had carried her away, as he held him by the tie and growled at him not to go telling him what was and wasn't his business again.

Malfoy's silent presence in the hospital room during all the days that followed.

And, of course, Malfoy and Hermione's arrival here, together.

They've been carrying on an affair right in front of me, for probably over a year now, he thought sickly, and I was too stupid to see...stupid, STUPID! No wonder she chose him over me. I waited too long to tell her, and I was stupid and blind, and I've lost her, and- and- how COULD she choose him over me? Malfoy! That's- that's nothing short of TREASON!

Never mind that Malfoy had proven himself an ally today, and was now paying for that allegiance with his life. On some deep level, Ron knew he was being irrational- but he couldn't help himself. His mind was reeling; he couldn't think straight- he could barely breathe. Outside on the steps, when he had laughed until he cried, he had thought things were as bad as they could get. He now saw how wrong he had been.

And now she was coming toward him, concern etched deeply into her face, asking him what was the matter and he could barely hear her because he was screaming inside and just what the hell was he supposed to say? What was he supposed to DO?!?

She reached out toward him, but he stepped quickly backward, flinching away from her touch. She stopped in her tracks. The concern still showed on her face, but now there was something else there too- a dawning of hurt. "Ron, what is going on with you?" she demanded.

So he gasped out the only three words his mind and his mouth seemed capable of coordinating; "You..kissed Malfoy." And then again, "You kissed MALFOY- on the lips!"

Hermione's mouth fell open in astonishment. THAT was what this was all about? "You don't understand-" she began.

"I understand what I just saw with my own two eyes," Ron countered. "You kissed Malfoy on the lips-" here his eyes narrowed- "and it didn't look like the first time, either. It looked like something that you're fairly used to doing!"

"Ron, I-"

And here came the anger, out of the midst of the bewilderment and pain, crashing over him in black waves.

"Ron, I-" he mimicked viciously, cutting her off. There was such fury in his voice and eyes that she staggered back a step as if she had been slapped. "I don't want to hear your explanations. I just want one simple question answered. How long have you been sneaking around with him, eh? HOW LONG?!?"

"Ron, we're FRIENDS! We have been for over a year. We've been meeting in the library to study..What?! It's true!"

Ron was nodding sagely. "Oh, yeah. Right. Friends. Study buddies, eh? So that's what they're calling it these days."

Color flooded her cheeks. "You incredible bastard," she whispered.

Now Ron actually had the gall to look stung. "Well, answer me this, then- if you're just friends, why didn't you ever tell Harry and me?"

Her hands balled into fists as she screamed, "BECAUSE I KNEW YOU'D ACT JUST LIKE THIS! I know I should have told you and Harry, all right? I KNOW that! If I had told you about our friendship then Harry wouldn't have thought- then Draco wouldn't be DYING right now. His blood is on my hands and I can't even begin to think how I'm going to live with myself knowing that! But I was scared to tell because I knew that you would automatically jump to the worst possible conclusion- just like you're doing! And- and- and you have NO RIGHT to berate me, Ron Weasley, even if we WERE more than friends, because I'm not your girlfriend and I never have been..not because I didn't want to be, but because YOU NEVER ASKED! "

Ron stood silently, his mind whirling as he attempted to absorb everything she had just said. He had no idea what part of her tirade to address first. As for Hermione, she turned her back on him and stumbled, suddenly blinded by tears, a few feet away where she wrapped her arms tightly around herself, sank to her knees, and proceeded to sob broken heartedly; huge, wrenching, painful sobs that shook her whole body.

Seeing her like that, Ron felt his anger vanish as suddenly as it had come. My God, he thought, I AM an incredible bastard! I love her SO much and I just- keep- hurting her! What the hell is WRONG with me?!?

He went quickly to kneel beside her. He reached for her, but now it was her turn to flinch away. "Leave..m-me..alone," she gasped out between sobs. Ron withdrew his hand and realized with a sick feeling that he may just have crossed a line that there could be no recrossing; he might not- EVER- be able to fix this. He remained where he was, silent and still, as she struggled to regain control of herself.

"So," he said finally, lamely, once she seemed to have regained her composure several long moments later, "just, um, just friends, huh?"

"Yeah," she said in a hoarse voice, still facing away from him. "For years I thought he was stupid just because of what house he was in- stupid and mean just like his cronies- you know those Slytherins aren't generally a very bright bunch. But he's not stupid. I found out he was smart and funny and well-read, and he takes his studies as seriously as I do. We would..we would read the same book and then debate..anyway, we've been friends for months and never more..until- until last night."

Ron felt his heart jump into his throat. "What- what happened last night?" he asked, unable to help himself.

"He told me he loved me. He said I'd be the death of him...and I guess he was right. And- and then he kissed me."

"I see," Ron said in an odd, strangled voice. He took a deep breath, steeling himself for his next question, and the answer he dreaded. "Do you love him?" No reply. "Hermione- DO YOU LOVE HIM!?"

Her voice was so quiet he could barely make out her words. "I don't know."

"Well...do you..." He swallowed hard and stared at the floor. How he even had the nerve to ask her this was beyond him, after the way he had just treated her. But he had to ask; had to know. "Do you...could you...love me?"

"Sometimes I think so," she whispered, still not looking at him, "and then you do something like this."

Ron winced. I deserved that, he thought; so help me, I really did. But it didn't make it any easier to hear.

He could think of nothing else to say, so he got to his feet and went to retrieve his broomstick. Coming back to where she still knelt on the floor, he held out a hand to help her up. "Come on, Hermione- we'd better start back. There are two of us, and this is no Firebolt. It's gonna be a long trip, and it's almost dark. If we want to reach Hogwarts by tomorrow morning, we need to get going."

Ignoring his proffered hand, she stood up on her own.

Without another word, he mounted the broom and she settled herself behind him. He waited until he was sure she had a firm grip on him, then took off through the gaping window and into the dusk. As Hermione leaned her forehead against the back of his shoulder and pushed her hands into his pockets from behind for warmth, it was almost possible for Ron to fool himself into believing that things might be okay between them again. Almost.

Night had fallen when Draco regained consciousness, as Harry sped them toward Hogwarts on the lashed-together broomsticks. Raising his head weakly from where it lay against Harry's shoulder, his pale eyes blinked slowly open, silver in the moonlight.

When he realized where he was and what was happening, he began to struggle weakly in a vain attempt to throw himself into space. "Lemme go, Potter," he croaked. "Goddamn hero-boy...just lemme go!"

In answer, the arms that were holding him from behind, one around his waist and one around his chest, tightened. "Not bloody likely," came a calm, quiet voice in his ear.

"You don't care about me, hero-boy," Draco whispered bitterly as he slumped back against Harry's chest in defeat. "You just don't want my death...on your bloody perfect conscience...th'sall."

"Not true," came that calm voice. "You did some things back there, Malfoy, that made me think I've been wrong about you all these years...and Hermione, she sees something in you, something good...and she's always right. About everything. I don't want you to die, because I think you deserve to live- even if you don't. And once you've pulled through this, I hope you'll give me a second chance to take your hand in friendship."

Draco's lips quirked upward faintly. "I didn't...just hear that," he mumbled. "Must be delirious."

Harry gave a soft snort of laughter in his ear. "You heard me fine, Malfoy. And we're almost there now. So just try to stay with me till we get there, okay? Malfoy? Stay with me, Malfoy- hey! C'mon- Malfoy!"

But Draco was no longer answering. His body sagged limply against Harry, who tightened his arms still further about his former enemy, as if attempting to hold the last remaining sliver of life within Draco by sheer physical force.

"Please, Malfoy," Harry whispered brokenly, "please stay with me. Please don't die. I will make this up to you somehow- I don't care how long it takes- I will find a way. Just don't- damnit, Mal- Draco- don't die!"

Draco heard this plea as if from far away, but though he tried to form an answer he could not. Unable to speak, unable to move, convinced he was living out his last few moments on earth, he allowed his mind to wander.

Damn, but the boy can fly, he thought somewhat wistfully. There seemed no point in denying it to himself, not anymore- what did it matter now if he finally admitted what he had known in the back of his mind for years; Potter was a superb flyer, maybe- maybe even better than him.

After all, the power of one Firebolt broom was more than many people could handle- only professionals used them; professionals and the very rich, who could pay for professionals to train them. And Potter, of course. Somehow golden-boy Potter always ended up with the best of everything- but that was beside the point. Just one Firebolt contained more power than most wizards could tame- let alone two. But Potter had harnessed the power of two Firebolts and was controlling them now with perfect ease- using only his knees to guide them!

And why was he using only his knees to guide them? Because his arms were otherwise engaged, of course. Yes, about that...Draco could feel Potter's arms tight around him; warm, solid, protective. He remembered the horror he had felt, back on the floor of the ruins, at the thought of being held by Potter- but really, this wasn't so bad. He could almost allow himself to imagine that they were the arms of a friend- someone who truly cared whether he lived or died. Not that he had any idea what the arms of a friend would feel like- he had never had a real friend in his life (not until Hermione, anyway)- just lackeys and hangers-on. But he thought that being held by a friend, the way he had seen Potter and Weasley hold on to each other in the corridor after Snape had carried Hermione away, might feel quite a bit like this.

And though one corner of his mind screamed at him that it was Potter who had done this to him in the first place and DON'T YOU FORGET IT, he responded immediately that Potter had had good reason- he had thought that Draco was endangering Hermione, and considering the scene he and Weasley had walked in on, it was no wonder he had thought that. And wouldn't Draco do the same thing to anyone he perceived to be a mortal threat to Hermione? Damn straight he would, only he'd keep stabbing till the bastard was dead. So no, he couldn't even really blame Potter for what he had done. He understood perfectly.

What he still did not understand, no matter how he looked at it, was this- being sped back to the Hogwarts infirmary despite his protests, as if- again, as if Potter actually cared that he lived. And not just because he was a heroic Gryffindor whose duty it was to save others- that was true, but it wasn't all. No, it seemed from his haste, from his desperate pleas and from his use of Draco's given name a few moments before- (that had not been lost on him)- that Potter actually DID care, and Draco now realized something else- he wanted to believe it- WANTED to, though he still couldn't quite bring himself to do so.

It was just that this was so far outside his realm of experience that his mind could barely grasp it. If it had been a fellow Slytherin that had stabbed him back there, for whatever reason, whether intentional or accidental, he knew damn well he wouldn't be on his way back to Hogwarts right now. A Slytherin would have finished the job, buried him in a shallow grave, and concocted a foolproof alibi before heading back to school and denying having seen him since last period on Friday. He knew this with absolute certainty.

And yet he wasn't dead. (Yet.) He hadn't been left. His exhausted, fevered, pain-riddled mind kept returning to this thought like a dog worrying a bone. He hadn't been left though it would have been easier on the Gryffindors to do so. He hadn't been left though any one of the Slytherins, those he had counted as his "friends" for the past six years, would have done so. He hadn't been left though he had specifically requested- no, make that demanded- that Potter do so. He hadn't been left. Instead, here he was, cradled securely in the arms of his nemesis, being rushed back to Hogwarts with the same frantic speed that Potter would have used if Hermione or Weasley had been the one mortally wounded. Potter would be acting exactly the same if it was one of his best friends who was bleeding to death in his arms, and so really, was it all that difficult to imagine that Potter might actually care whether he lived or died? No- no, it wasn't difficult. It was amazingly easy, and amazingly pleasant as well.

I guess if Potter cares, then at least that makes one, he thought wryly. Actually, wait- I think Hermione probably cares too..all right, that makes two then, two people who might be genuinely upset by my death. One of whom is the person who stabbed me in the first place. Well, aren't I mister popular?

Not that his death wouldn't cause a stir. The weeping and wailing that it would generate would be epic. But it would all be a show. Financed by his parents and enthusiastically participated in by his housemates, he had no doubt that the lamentations would go on for weeks, months- for however long it took to see Harry sentenced to the Dementor's Kiss for his murder, to be exact. Not because they would care to see justice done on his behalf- especially once word got out about his betrayal of the Dark Lord- no, simply because Potter was Potter, and they wanted him dead, and there was no longer a Voldemort to see to that. This was what Potter had gotten himself into by bringing him back instead of doing the sensible Slytherin thing and leaving him behind. Because he WOULD die- he had to. Sheer willpower on Potter's part was not going to keep him alive, when it felt like there was virtually no blood left in his body, except for what had seeped into his damaged lung and was slowly but surely drowning him.

Now Potter was speaking again, low, urgently, and Draco's train of thought was broken because it took all the focus he could muster to listen and make sense of the words being murmured in his ear.

"Malfoy- look, we're back. Open your eyes and look! I can see the castle ahead, I can see the lights...Malfoy, please open your eyes. We're almost to the Quidditch field...all the times we've faced each other there...please stay with me...if you die there's not a person left at this school who can challenge me...not the way you can...I've never said that to anyone before, but it's true...we're gonna be team captains against each other next year...Malfoy, please!"

The panic in Potter's voice was palpable, and it made Draco want to respond. He wanted to say something light, something absurdly reassuring, something like, the next time I beat your sorry ass to the snitch, Potter, you'll wish you HAD left me like I told you to- and he tried, he tried mightily. He actually managed to get his mouth open but then, to his horror, instead of his intended words, all that came out was a wet gurgle and a great quantity of blood. Shit, this was so NOT good. Try for reassuring and this was what he got. About the farthest thing from it. It wasn't that he hadn't accepted the fact of his own impending death- he had- all the way back at the ruins he had- accepted and welcomed it- but for some reason he couldn't quite fathom himself, he hadn't wanted to worry Potter any more. Well trust himself to louse that up in a big way.

He felt, distantly, Potter reach up with one hand and brush cold fingertips against his chin. He didn't need to open his eyes to know that the next thing Potter did was raise his fingers into the moonlight to inspect the blood on them. Potter tensed behind him.

"Christ, oh Jesus Christ! No! Shit, Malfoy, no! Not now, not when we're so close- it's thirty seconds more, for the love of God, you can hold on for thirty seconds- do you hear me?!? For Christ's sake, PLEASE, Draco- YOU HAVE TO HOLD ON!"

Draco was dimly aware of light blooming on the other side of his closed eyelids as they approached the castle; it was the light from the windows and it was growing brighter, brighter, as, unbeknownst to him, Harry hurled them toward the large window at the end of the infirmary wing , barely slowing down as they approached it.

Harry simultaneously lowered his head and raised his hands to protect Draco's face as the boys crashed through the window with terrific force. Draco barely registered the impact as glass flew everywhere and Harry yanked sharply back on the broomsticks, causing them to stop so suddenly that the temperamental Firebolts skidded sideways in the air in protest. Then, at Harry's command, the brooms sank gently to the floor leaving Harry standing in the midst of the havoc-strewn ward, arms wrapped tightly around Draco, supporting him from behind, head thrown back and screaming for Dumbledore like a man possessed.

Harry stood in the midst of the chaos he had created in the hospital ward, shouting for assistance, with Draco's lifeless form clasped tightly to his chest. The blond boy's head had fallen forward and he was dead weight in Harry's arms; Harry was fast using up his last reserves of strength to keep them both upright.

As the door at the end of the ward crashed open and Dumbledore sprinted toward him (faster than a man that age should have any business moving), a large black dog at his side and Snape, McGonagall and Pomfrey close behind him, Harry's vision abruptly blurred and doubled, and he felt his legs give way as complete exhaustion finally overwhelmed him.

He sank slowly to the floor, taking Draco with him as sheer panic spread across the faces of the five adults present (five because the dog, upon seeing Harry crumple to the floor, had morphed into a gaunt, black-haired man without so much as breaking his stride).

Sirius hurled himself to his knees beside the two boys, encompassing them both in his strong arms, but it was Harry all his attention was focused on. So much blood, he was thinking, oh dear God, there's blood everywhere...

As for Harry, he stared up at his godfather, blinking hard, trying to clear his vision. He didn't think he had ever seen Sirius look so haggard- and that was saying something- and- this he could hardly credit- there were tears running down the older man's weathered face. And then he realized that Sirius was speaking to him, trying and failing to control the fear in his voice.

"Harry...oh no...God, no...how are you hurt? Where are you hurt? Harry, tell me! Who did this to you?!?"

Glancing down at himself, he realized that his clothes were soaked in Draco's blood, and that this (together with his collapse) was what was making Sirius think that he was wounded as well. He attempted to lever himself up on his elbows as he gasped out, "Sirius...no! I'm okay...I'm not hurt...all the blood is Malfoy's. Sirius, he needs help- help him, please!"

Already Draco was being lifted off of him by Snape, whose grim expression didn't quite mask the look of shocked horror in his eyes. "Draco," Snape was murmuring, and Harry had never heard his tone so gentle, "Draco...Draco?"

As if from far away, Harry heard Dumbledore's deep, calm voice instructing Snape to take Draco to one of the private rooms. He renewed his struggles to sit up, straining against Sirius, who was trying to hold him immobile. "Professor," he gasped, "let me go with him! I need to stay with him, professor! This is my fault- he's my responsibility now- please!" He was working himself into a frenzy, staring after the departing Snape. "Professor, PLEASE!"

Dumbledore hunkered down beside him and placed a soothing hand on Harry's shoulder. Looking back up at Madam Pomfrey and professor McGonagall, who were both staring at Sirius in unmitigated shock, he cleared his throat. "I assure you, ladies, that there is no cause for alarm- at least, not in regard to the presence of Mr. Black," the headmaster said. "Now, Poppy, if you would be so kind as to go after Severus and do what you can for young Malfoy?"

Madam Pomfrey turned on her heel and hurried away, casting one more wide- eyed, disbelieving glance over her shoulder at Sirius as she went.

"Now Harry," Dumbledore said quietly, turning back to Harry as professor McGonagall knelt down beside him as well, "please calm down." Harry had given up fighting Sirius's strong grasp, but his eyes were frantic. "I assure you that you will be allowed to return to Draco's side shortly- I will personally see to it that a second bed is placed in his room for your use, as you are clearly exhausted. First, however, I must insist that you answer some very important questions."

Harry nodded dumbly in defeat, and allowed himself to sag back against Sirius. He had been supporting Draco for so long on the broomsticks that it was actually a relief now to be the one supported.

"Am I correct in assuming," Dumbledore asked, "that you and Ron went after Voldemort as soon as you saw that Hermione's condition had stabilized? And that Draco and Hermione realized where you had gone and somehow followed you?"

"Yes, sir," Harry whispered.

"And the outcome? Other than the fact that Draco is now at death's door?"

"Voldemort is dead, sir." Harry paused as the adults gasped at this extraordinary news, and then his eyes flicked to Sirius before he added, "So is Peter Pettigrew. He was sneaking up behind me-"

("How very true to his nature," Sirius murmured.)

"-and Ron killed him with the Avada Kedavra curse. He won't get in trouble for that, will he, professor?" he asked anxiously, his eyes returning to Dumbledore.

"Under the circumstances, I should think not," Dumbledore replied. "In fact, once Pettigrew's body is recovered and his treachery revealed, I should think Ron will receive a hero's treatment. And now, speaking of Ron, where are he and Hermione at the moment?"

"They're coming back together on the last broom. I used both the Firebolts to get Malfoy here as fast as I could- so they had to share Ron's broom. They're probably hours behind us."

"I see. And that brings us directly back to the question of Mister Malfoy. How was he wounded, and by whom- Voldemort or Pettigrew? Or were there others as well?"

"No," Harry whispered, "there were no others. And it wasn't Voldemort or Pettigrew either." He let his eyes fall closed, but not before Dumbledore saw the despair in them. "It was me, sir. I stabbed Malfoy."

He heard three shocked intakes of breath and he waited, waited for the anger, for the accusations, for the disappointment he knew was coming- had to be coming- from three of the adults he most respected and loved in the world. But when Dumbledore next spoke, his voice was as gentle as before.

"Harry- surely there is more to it than that. Come, shed some light on this for us."

"I wish-" Harry swallowed hard, gulping back tears, "I wish there was something I could say to you, professor, some reason I could give that would justify what I did...but there's no justification. When I saw Malfoy there with Hermione, I thought he was working with Voldemort...I thought he had brought her against her will, that he was planning to turn her over to...him. And I- I just snapped. I stabbed him and in that instant I wanted him dead, wanted it as badly as I've ever wanted anything in my life." He stopped as a sob was ripped, unwillingly, from his throat.

"And then," he continued shakily, "Voldemort- he thanked me for doing it- and I realized how wrong I was- Malfoy was there for the same reason we were. I think- I'm not sure- but I think he's in love with Hermione. And he was so determined- he didn't go down- he WOULDN'T go down- he fought along with us- he helped us kill Voldemort. Only then- only then did he- did we realize just how bad..."

His voice was choked off as, no longer able to control himself, tears of anguish poured down his cheeks. He buried his head in his hands and sobbed, vaguely aware that Dumbledore's hand remained comfortingly on his shoulder, that the normally stern, reserved professor McGonagall was murmuring words of comfort, that Sirius was rocking him gently, as if he were a child.

Finally he managed to calm himself enough to whisper, "professor...you said...can I...see him now?"

"Certainly," said Dumbledore, getting to his feet. "Let us all go and see how Poppy is faring with him."

Sirius helped Harry to his feet, then slung Harry's arm about his own broad shoulder and murmured, "lean on me, Harry." Harry did as he was told, grateful for the support as they followed Dumbledore and McGonagall toward the end of the ward, where a small hallway led to the four private hospital rooms.

Upon entering the room that had been designated as Draco's, Harry broke from Sirius and went quickly to stand beside the bed, staring down at his former enemy's still form.

Draco lay on top of the sheets. The blood that had covered him had been magicked away, and the wound on his chest likewise closed by Madam Pomfrey's healing magic. His blood drenched flying leathers had been removed from his body and were nowhere in sight; he was now clothed all in clean white cotton; a simple long-sleeved tee-shirt and soft drawstring- waist pants. It was hard to tell where the white clothes ended and his skin began; he was so pale.

Dimly, Harry registered hearing Madam Pomfrey speaking anxiously to Dumbledore. "-healed his wound easily enough," she was saying, "and the punctured lung too..but Albus, he's lost so much blood! I can hardly believe he's still alive at all- there's barely a drop left in him-" Harry stopped listening; it was too painful. He turned his attention instead to Snape.

Snape was sitting on the edge of the bed. The front of his robe was tacky with Draco's blood. He was facing away from Draco, but he held his star student's hand tightly in his own. His other hand was clenching and unclenching spasmodically. His expression was hard and set, his jaw clenched, yet his eyes seemed overly bright. Harry had never seen the potions master so visibly shaken before; he looked positively...grief- stricken.

I guess Slytherins can feel love and loyalty too, Harry thought dully; and pain, and loss, and grief. It was not something he had ever really thought about before. For years I wished for a way to hurt Snape, to pay him back for all the mean, unfair things he said and did to me and my friends. Looks like I succeeded at last. He had to consciously bite back the burst of bitter, mirthless laughter that threatened to escape his lips.

And then Sirius was there at his side again, turning Harry away and steering him toward the second bed that had, as Dumbledore had promised, magically appeared in the room.

Harry sank onto the edge of the bed and allowed Sirius to cajole him into lying down, and to cover him with a blanket. Sitting beside him, Sirius gently smoothed Harry's rumpled hair back from his brow. Again, he was treating Harry as if he was six years old- and Harry found that he didn't mind a bit. He smiled weakly up at his godfather. "I'm glad you're here, Sirius," he said.

Sirius returned the smile, though the worry in his eyes did not lessen. "Me too, Harry," he replied. "Now try to get some sleep- you've been through a lot today."

Harry turned his head and gazed at Draco in the next bed. "But Malfoy- I should really-"

"Harry." Harry reluctantly turned to face Sirius again. "You've done everything you can do for him. No one else could have gotten him here by broomstick so quickly. The only faster way would have been apparation- and it's not your fault you haven't been taught that yet. If he pulls through, it will be thanks to you."

"But if he dies it will also be thanks to me," Harry whispered hopelessly. "How's that for irony?"

Sirius appeared unable to think of a suitable reply. "Just sleep," he repeated. He gently plucked Harry's glasses from his face and placed them on the nightstand, and then, astonishingly, he bent and lightly kissed Harry's forehead. Never in his life had Harry been kissed like that before- kissed by an adult as a parent might kiss a child. He felt an immediate sense of safety, security, well-being....that flowed over him in a warm, protective wave and seemed to push back his feelings of guilt, hopelessness and despair. They weren't banished entirely, those awful feelings, but they were distanced and suddenly he felt as though he could sleep, could sleep for a year. His eyelids fell slowly shut as Sirius stood up and, together with Snape, who had just stood as well, went over to join Dumbledore where he was deep in conversation with Madam Pomfrey and professor McGonagall in a corner of the room.

Though fatigue was washing over him in slow, steady waves from head to foot, Harry lay with his eyes closed and struggled to stay awake just a little longer, because he wanted to hear the adults' conversation. He managed to pick up murmurs here and there; Dumbledore was instructing Snape, McGonagall and Sirius to fly out in an attempt to intercept Ron and Hermione. Professor McGonagall was to accompany them safely the rest of the way back to school, while Snape and Sirius were to continue on and hopefully recover Voldemort and Pettigrew's bodies.

"I want to stay with my student-" that was Snape, sounding mutinous.

"Severus, I realize how deeply you care for the boy." Dumbledore again. "But he's in very capable hands now and you are needed elsewhere. Your expertise on a broom is too valuable to waste."

Professor Snape can FLY? Harry thought dazedly. Technically, he had known Snape could fly- he had refereed that quidditch match back in Harry's first year, after all- but from what Dumbledore had just said, it sounded as though Snape were really- well, really GOOD. The thought of grim, angry- eyed Snape zooming around on a broomstick pulling Wronski feints was just too weird. Harry put it from his mind.

"-use a tracking charm to make visible the path that Harry took on his flight here with Draco," Dumbledore was saying now. "If you follow that path back to its origin, you should meet Ron and Hermione along the way and find the bodies at the end of it."

There were a few more murmurs, too low for Harry to make out properly, followed by the sound of receding footsteps and a door opening and closing. Harry with his eyes closed thought for a moment that he and Draco were alone now, until he heard the headmaster sigh heavily and speak once more, this time addressing Madam Pomfrey. It seemed that only Snape, McGonagall and Sirius had left.